Well, I’m sorry,” I said to Elaine. “Apparently, the Browns moved to a place called Daken, years ago. It’s supposed to be really hard to find, but they said they’d show us the way.”
“Let’s hope we’re alive when we get there.”
“What can go wrong?”
I found out what could wrong soon enough as we shot down the twisting dirt roads in full pursuit of Brother Two in his dirt-covered Ford pick-up. Every bend in the road seemed to produce another choice of directions.
“Holy moly. Does he have a rocket engine in that thing?” Elaine muttered. “If we lose sight of him, we’re sunk.”
She had a point. I figured Brother Two might have had a career in Formula One before he went into the nightcrawler business. Whatever engine he had in that old truck, the Pathfinder couldn’t match it. I thought my head was going to splinter into a thousand painful fragments.
“Speed up! You’re losing him,” I said.
“Well, I don’t want to be in the line of fire if some of that wood comes flying out of the back.”
“But if we can’t see him . . .”
Elaine said, “I guess we get lost out here in this godforsaken bit of wilderness. We’ll be lucky if they find our bleached bones.”
“Do you think maybe his directional signal isn’t working?” Not that I’m such a geographer, but we’d turned north, south, east and west and had now started north again.
“Nobody lives here,” Elaine said.
“Come on. You can see houses every now and then through the trees.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“People don’t live near the road, I guess. I wonder how they manage in the winter?”
Elaine was bathed in sweat, and I was pretty damp myself when Brother Two whipped his truck into a ninety degree turn and shot down a half-hidden single track road. He must have used the OFA sign, which I guessed meant Ontario Farm Association, as the marker. Or it could have been the weather-beaten “Property For Sale” sign.
We slid precariously across the road and just missed a fine example of Canadian shield on the far side. Brother Two was completely out of sight by the time we got on the road. Lucky for us there were no more splits, turns or choice of directions. Just a couple of dips that caused my stomach to fly up to my throat, and there was the truck, stopped in front of a small conventional yellow brick bungalow. The house sat on a large lot. A cluster of outbuildings loomed in the back. A well-tended vegetable garden occupied a substantial space near to the side.
I got out of the car, knees weak and head buzzing. On the upside, I only saw one of everything, if you don’t count cedars and spruce.
Elaine stayed put. She seemed jittery.
Brother Two nodded briefly as I passed the truck. Apparently, he was staying put too.
I walked back to Elaine, who was clutching the steering wheel like a life preserver. “Let’s go.”
“You’re the one who counsels people. Come with me.”
“Can’t.”
“This is not about us, Elaine. We’ve got to tell the Browns their daughter has been killed. It’s the right thing to do.”
“You’ll do the right thing,” she said.
I marched up to Brother Two.
“Thanks for showing us the way. Please don’t leave without us.”
He grinned, giving a nice view of his chewing tobacco.
“I imagine they’ll be pleased,” he said.
“Pleased? I don’t think so,” I said. I stiffened my spine and set out toward the front door. Elaine stayed in the Pathfinder. Probably trying to get her heartbeat back into normal range.
Brother Two stuck his head out the window and called to me. “Best try around back.”
I edged my wobbly way around the side of the house. A German shepherd cross bounded toward me, snarling.
Thanks to Gussie, I had a few Liver Snaps in my pocket, and that earned me a new friend. Even watchdogs can be bought. Beyond the dog, a grey-haired man in a black and red checked shirt took a break from chopping wood.
I raised my hand in greeting. The dog sniffed at my pockets.
“Mr. Brown?” I said.
He nodded.
“My name is Camilla MacPhee. Can we talk inside?”
From the look of it, no one sat in the immaculate living room much. Mrs. Brown called it the front room, and it was plainly reserved for company. I would have preferred the warmth of the kitchen we’d walked through, where the smell of fresh bread hovered. The shepherd cross hovered in the doorway, whining, not daring to put a paw on the beige wall-to-wall carpeting.
Dust-free photos of a young smiling girl with dark braids occupied every available surface. I didn’t see a single picture of Laura. Was this Laura’s younger sister? She’d never mentioned a sister. No wonder, with such obvious favouritism. At the least, I would have expected Laura’s high school and university grad photos.
Sadie Brown was small, slim and just short of seventy. Her steel-grey hair was trimmed almost to the roots. She shook my hand with a powerful grip. She’d done her share of wood-chopping.
They settled me with coffee and fresh cookies, neither of which held much appeal. I still had to tell them their daughter was dead. That’ll curb your appetite.
She sat on the sofa. He remained standing. They looked at me expectantly. Whatever they were expecting, it wasn’t bad news.
“Before I go on, I want to make sure you are the parents of Laura Lynette Brown.”
“Laura Lynette?” Mrs. Brown said in surprise.
Ralph Brown said nothing.
My mouth was dry. “I am sorry to be the one to tell you this,” I began. I had already decided to leave the business of foul play to the police.
Their foreheads creased in puzzlement.
I felt my stomach turn over. “I’m afraid your daughter, Laura, has been killed. In an accident.”
Mrs. Brown’s hand shot to her mouth. Her husband sank into a chair.
I plowed on, gibbering. “It happened on Friday. A fall from an escarpment not far from the Parliament Buildings. I believe it was instantaneous.”
I felt tears rising. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand,” Laura’s mother said.
Denial. I knew it only too well.
“Because of her diabetes, apparently she passed out and slipped.”
“Diabetes?” he said.
Sadie Brown said, “What kind of terrible joke is this?”
Laura’s father got to his feet. So did I, unsteadily.
He said, “You’d better go now.”
Laura’s mother remained seated. She said to no one in particular, “What’s all this crazy talk about our Laura Lynette? I thought she wanted to see the house.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
She picked up the nearest photo and began to weep soundlessly. Her husband, white-faced, jaw clenched, held the door for me.
I didn’t remember Laura ever mentioning her family’s religion, but the University of Ottawa had been overwhelmingly Catholic, so I made an assumption. “Is there someone we can send for? Maybe your priest?”
She cried out, “Just leave. Leave.”
I stood my ground. “I can’t just leave you here on your own to deal with the shock of Laura’s death.”
“Why the hell not?” Laura’s father said. “We’ve been dealing with it for the last thirty years.”