Closing Time Read online

  “Well that’s good. I guess you’ll be wanting to hit the sack early if you’re on the road before dawn. We can catch up tomorrow. Tell me, have you bought the paint for the bedroom yet?”

  “I have. The cans and brushes are just inside the door of the room.”

  “I’ll get the first coat on while you’re working and I’ll keep an eye on Valerie.”

  “Thanks bro. I’ll rest a lot easier knowing you’re here.”

  Clark watched the pathologist cut into Rachel’s abdomen with his scalpel and winced before checking that nobody had noticed his reaction. He hated the sight of blood and had passed out once when he and Jordan were kids and Jordan ripped his leg open falling off his dirt bike. Since then he’d toughened up, but autopsies were the worst part of his job. That and car accidents. He kept watching the scalpel slicing through Rachel’s skin and muscle and knew he had to think of something else if he was going to make it through to the end. He let his mind drift back again to the night before and his conversation with Valerie.

  He’d eased into his side of the bed after finishing the beer and pizza. He was lying on his back, staring at the shadows on the ceiling when Valerie rolled onto her side to wrap an arm around his waist, nestling her face into his chest.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I tried not to wake you.”

  “It’s okay. I’m so uncomfortable that I can’t sleep for long.”

  “Just a few more weeks.”

  “Then neither of us will be getting much sleep if all the newborn stories are true.”

  “We might luck out and get a sound sleeper.”

  “That’s called living in a fantasy world.” She danced her fingers across his skin. “Did you tell him about Kala?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “You’re going to have to sooner or later.”

  “I’m not sure why. It’s not like he ever has to find out.”

  “What if he does? Word is bound to get around, and someone who knows her will tell someone….”

  He sighed. “Sometimes your common sense makes my life difficult.”

  “Better difficult now than regretful later.”

  He tilted his head and kissed her. “Let me sleep on it and I’ll decide tomorrow. I need another day to make up my mind. I don’t want to upset either one of them needlessly.”

  Clark checked his watch. The autopsy had been underway for well over an hour and would wrap up soon. The pathologist had taken scrapings from under Rachel’s fingernails and fibres from her skin. Clark’s job was to bear witness and testify later when required about each exhibit being removed. He was responsible for maintaining continuity of the evidence until the samples reached the lab. He’d feel like a kid released from detention when this was over and he could get back on the road. It would take a couple of beers and a shot of rye when he got home to relax him enough so that he could fall asleep. He’d share any revelations from the autopsy with Stonechild in the morning.

  Owen Eglan opened the door before Kala had a chance to ring the doorbell. The lines in his face cut deeper than the last time she’d seen him, and his pale-blue eyes were exhausted. “You’re helping then,” he said flatly. He swung the door wide and waved her into the hallway. “Come in. Isabelle’s at church. Rachel’s death has given her a reason to get more religious, not that she needed one.”

  He rolled his eyes and Kala returned his sideways smile before she followed him down the hallway to the bottom of the stairs. “Officer Harrison asked me to go through Rachel’s room. I understand that you’ve left it as it was before she died.”

  He turned. “We shut the door and haven’t been inside except … well, I found Isabelle lying on Rachel’s bed that first night after we learned she was dead. She was holding on to Rachel’s nightgown, rolling around on the blankets and crying. I don’t imagine that will impact your search.”

  The same emotionless voice that only amplified the crushing pathos. “No, but thank you for telling me.”

  “I’ll let you get to it then. I’ll be outside in the yard if you need me.”

  She put a hand on his forearm. “How are you doing, Owen?”

  He was still for a moment and his face began to crumple in on itself before he took a gulping breath and regained control. “Not great. I feel this guilt eating me up. If I’d turned down that job and gone to get her, she’d still be alive.”

  “The person who killed her holds all the blame. People get delayed or forget appointments all the time without anything like this happening. It is not your fault.”

  “I hope I come around to believing you, but I doubt I’ll ever get out from under this. Isabelle blames me entirely.”

  “Well, she shouldn’t. I don’t.”

  He dropped his head and nodded once. His voice was gruff. “Thanks. Rachel’s room is upstairs. First door on the right. I’ll be outside.”

  She climbed the carpeted stairs to the landing. The hallway smelled of lemony cleaner and beeswax and she looked into the corners. Not a speck of dust; everywhere she looked was spotlessly clean. Isabelle’s doing, she thought. She’s keeping the grief from pulling her under. Kala opened the door to Rachel’s bedroom and stood on the threshold, trying to get a feeling for the girl. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, imagining she smelled the delicate scent of Rachel’s perfume that surely would have faded, but perhaps not completely. She said a silent prayer for Rachel before opening her eyes and looking around.

  The room was small and cramped. A single bed was pressed up against the lavender-painted wall with posters of popular male singers filling the entire space. Kala recognized Drake and Bieber but not the rest. She wondered if Dawn listened to any of them, not certain what played in her headphones when she was doing homework in her room.

  A three-tier chest of drawers that served double duty as a bedside table was wedged beneath the window. A hooked oval throw rug filled the small space next to the bed with barely enough room for the straight-backed chair against the wall. The chair was loaded down with clothes, likely tossed there by Rachel after she’d worn them. Kala opened the closet door. The space was crammed with clothes on hangers and shoes stacked haphazardly on the floor. Yearbooks and shoeboxes were tucked on the shelf above. All would need to be gone through.

  She returned to the chest of drawers and scanned the assortment of drugstore makeup and costume jewellery scattered across the top. A clock rested on top of six paperbacks and she moved them sideways to read the spines. Four Harlequin romances, Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, and Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. Two photos stood in silver frames: Rachel with two taller red-headed boys — Kala guessed they were her brothers — and another of Rachel with a boy her own age, most likely her boyfriend.

  She picked up the picture with the boyfriend and lifted it closer to study the faces. The boy had his arm slung around Rachel’s shoulders and he was grinning widely, while her smile looked forced, as if someone had instructed her to show some teeth for the camera. He was a tall, skinny kid in a blue suit a size too big. Big ears and brown hair cut spiky and greased with gel to stand up from his head. Blue eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. Not unattractive, but not a boy whom girls would spend nights dreaming about. Definitely not a Harlequin hunk.

  She set the photo down and picked up a nearly empty purple glass bottle of perfume. Wonderstruck by Taylor Swift. She pulled off the top and sniffed. A mix of florals with a sandalwood base — the faint scent she’d detected when she opened the door. She set it back on the dresser and opened the top drawer. A jumble of underwear and socks sprung out and needed to be pushed down before closing. The second drawer held shirts and sweaters, most unfolded and wrinkled. Jeans and sweatpants packed the bottom drawer with no room to spare.

  She stepped back and took one last look around, soaking in the overall picture before starting a thorough search. Rachel had been a typical teenager, with dreams for a bigger, more romantic life than the one she was living in Searchmont. Had she been as close to her mother as Isabelle
claimed? Or had she been desperate to get out from under her mother’s religious zeal and smothering concern, as Thomas Faraday had observed? Kala tempered the hope that she’d find the answers in the bedroom. A mother like Isabelle would have made any daughter secretive and careful about what she left lying around. Rachel would have known that not even her bedroom would be off limits from snooping done in the name of motherly love.

  Three hours later Kala had made her way through the desk and closet. She’d been right about Rachel not leaving anything revealing where her mother could find it. She hadn’t kept a diary, although she’d filled a couple of notebooks with her poetry. The poems had been surprisingly mature, the later ones written about a romantic relationship. Had she drawn from a vivid imagination or her own experiences? Likely the former since she was only sixteen, but Kala had no way of knowing at this point. She picked up the photo of Rachel with her boyfriend again. He didn’t look like someone who’d inspire this kind of lust and longing, but sixteen was the age of out-of-control hormones.

  Kala sat cross-legged on the floor, thinking and rereading the last haunting poem, dated only a week before Rachel’s death. She’d written it with a purple pen in rounded cursive. The poem seemed a dire omen of what was to come.

  The darkness sifts the light from day.

  I rest to see

  The blackness crawl in silence through the trees.

  The grass a sweep of armied sway

  That gives and bows as candle flames.

  The night will lead a road to you.

  We are the same.

  Like grass and wind we push and yield anew.

  I wait for dark to hide your eyes from mine

  I take the road toward the phantom sun

  I run and do not look behind.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Martha woke, rolled over, and flung an arm across the other side of the bed only to come up empty. Neal was gone, the sheets cold. She lay still for a moment, listening for him in another room of the house, but all she heard was the furnace turn on and blow warm air through the vent. He must have left already, gone to the main lodge to help Shane with breakfast. She inspected his side of the bed and couldn’t tell if he’d slept there at all.

  She showered and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt before going into the kitchen. Neal hadn’t put on the coffee, something he would have done when they were getting along. He never would have left in the morning without waking her or leaving a note to tell her where she could reach him. They’d had fights before, but nothing like this. The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach was always with her now. Is this how it’s going to be? she asked her grim reflection in the window. Hoping he finds his way back to me and dreading the worst?

  The coffee had brewed and she was reaching for a mug when the front door opened. She turned with a smile on her face, expecting Neal, but Petra flew into the kitchen instead. “Sorry for not knocking,” she said, “but it was unlocked.” She looked around. “Where’s Neal?”

  “I expect he’s helping Shane with breakfast.” Martha took down a second mug and filled both before sliding one across the island to Petra. “You’re never up this early. What’s going on?”

  “I’m having trouble sleeping since Rachel died.” She pulled out a stool and sat, then wrapped both hands around the mug. “I feel so on edge.”

  Martha took a closer look at Petra’s face. The skin under her eyes was bluish against her too-pale complexion. She’d bitten down the nails on the hand that she lifted to push a long strand of hair behind her ear. Petra had never been particularly sensitive to the plight of other females, nor had she given Rachel the time of day. In fact, she’d said she didn’t like Rachel upon learning of her death. This distress was out of character.

  “You can’t still believe that you hit Rachel with your car?”

  “No.” Petra’s long blond hair tumbled back and forth across her face as she shook her head. “Shane heard a rumour from a credible source about her death that lets me off the hook.”

  Martha’s stomach tightened. “What rumour?”

  “Rachel wasn’t hit by a car. Somebody murdered her.”

  Martha’s body went cold. “Why would somebody do that?” she asked. She stared past Petra to look out the window while she struggled to keep herself together. “Rachel never caused any trouble.”

  “Oh, come off it. She was such a sly little thing. I never trusted her and maybe she threatened someone or … I don’t know, pissed them off?” Petra snorted. “She had her hooks into Neal, so I wouldn’t have put it past her to be shagging every man in this town.”

  Martha stared. “I wish you’d stop saying that about my husband.”

  “We both know what went on between them meant nothing. A one-off to get back at you.”

  “I still don’t like you talking about them.” Martha lifted her coffee cup and drank.

  Petra’s eyes studied her. “How’s it going with Neal? Has he recommitted to your marriage, or is he still being a cold, hypocritical prick?”

  “We’ve been better.”

  Petra’s voice softened. “I’m sorry I brought this pain on you both.”

  Martha closed her eyes. “I can’t do this, Petra. Not now and not with you.”

  “I wish Neal were more accepting like Shane, and that’s the last I’ll say on the matter.” Petra was silent until Martha looked at her again. “I told Shane I’m going to stay in Sudbury with friends until this place closes up, and he said that the police might want me here. How odd is it that the Indigenous woman is a cop? Shane said she’s helping with the murder case.”

  “How does he know this?”

  “He went to visit Owen Eglan at his house yesterday afternoon between shifts. I was surprised he did that, to be honest.”

  The queasiness returned and Martha abruptly stood, picking up her mug and turning her back on Petra. “I have to start cleaning the cabins. I’m already late.”

  She heard Petra push back her stool. “I’ll see myself out then. I’d offer to help but know how you prefer to work solo these days.”

  Martha didn’t dignify the comment with a response. She stood with her hands resting on the counter and head bowed until she heard the crack of the screen door snapping into place.

  Clark arrived home shortly past six, greeted by the smell of fresh paint and his brother waiting in the kitchen with two cold beer bottles on the table. “I heard you pull up,” Jordan said. “How’d it go?”

  “Tiring but okay. Where’s Valerie?”

  “I sent her out for the day to be away from the paint. It’s not toxic but best to hedge our bets. She’s been at the spa, and we’re to meet her in half an hour at Giovanni’s for some good Italian cooking.”

  “You’re a better husband than I am,” said Clark, twisting the top off the bottle and taking a swig of beer. He tilted the bottle toward Jordan. “And a better brother. Thanks for getting that room painted. She swore she wasn’t going to go into labour until I got that done.”

  “Not sure how she planned to keep the kid inside her womb until university, but you’d have saved a fortune in diapers.”

  “C’mon. Grade school. Give me some credit.”

  “I thought I was.”

  Clark dumped a bag of Old Dutch chips into a bowl and sat down at the table. “Hors d’oeuvres, northern style.”

  “The best kind.” Jordan took a handful. “So, tell me as much as you’re able about the case.”

  “A couple of days ago a sixteen-year-old girl turns up dead on the side of the road between Pine Hollow Lodge and her house on the outskirts of Searchmont. She’d finished a shift working in the lodge restaurant and her father never showed to pick her up as promised, so the assumption is that she started walking. Someone hit her with a hard object that we believe was a tire iron and rolled her into a culvert.”

  “Suspects?”

  “Nobody and everybody. Had to be someone local.”

  “Is that another assumption?”

  �
��Yeah, but it’s such an out-of-the-way location I can’t believe a stranger would happen to be there looking for somebody to kill. Doesn’t add up.”

  “How big a team you got working on it?”

  Clark shoved a handful of chips into his mouth to buy some time. Had Valerie already told him about Stonechild? He watched Jordan pick a chip from the bowl, but his face was free of guile. “I’m lead in the field. I have others I can call on if needed.”

  “What happens when Valerie goes into labour? You got a backup plan?”

  Clark had no idea if he was doing the right thing but said, “I’m working with a cop who happens to be staying at the lodge. Kala Stonechild.”

  Jordan had the beer bottle halfway to his lips. He stopped as his body went still. He set the bottle on the table. “Kala. How is she?”

  “Same as ever. Closed off. She’s renting a cabin with her niece who looks to be about fourteen. They’re living together in Kingston and here on a holiday.”

  “She married?”

  Clark didn’t like hurting his brother but figured false hope might be the worst kind of cruel. “No, but she told me that she’s with somebody.”

  Jordan hesitated for a second before he picked up the beer bottle. He took a big mouthful, swallowed, and said, “Guess we should get moving or Valerie will be sitting at the restaurant all alone.”

  “Listen, Jordan. I didn’t want to …”

  “It’s okay. I’m glad you told me, but let’s not make a big deal of it. I’ll find my coat and we can get a move on.”

  “I’ll change my clothes and meet you out front.”

  Clark climbed the stairs to the bedroom, knowing he’d delivered a body blow to his brother. Jordan had avoided commitment after leaving his wife on the mistaken belief that Kala would find her way back to him. He had a suspicion that Jordan wasn’t going to leave the Soo without making an attempt to see her — and there was no telling which way that reunion would go. Clark hoped he wasn’t going to regret his decision, but at least Valerie wouldn’t be hounding him any longer about keeping a secret that could destroy his close relationship with Jordan if it ever came out.