Society in Calgary, high or otherwise, was a very eclectic mix, reflected Chris, taking the first sip of his martini in the opulent living room of the Church residence. True, there was a smattering of Old Calgary—descendants of ranching families and pioneer oilmen—but the majority were professionals who had come west to make their fortunes and had made it big. The economic engines of that success were the oil patch, the technology that had grown up around it, and the financial and legal services that promoted and facilitated those activities. That mix was pretty well represented at tonight's gathering, Chris observed as he surveyed the assembled guests. He knew them all, except for one attractive woman about his own age. She seemed to be alone. Had Marie succumbed, like some of his other hostesses, to the temptation to match him with "someone suitable"?
His suspicion was confirmed when Marie took him by the arm and gaily announced that he had to meet her good friend Sarah.
The amused and coolly reserved look on Sarah Struthers-Milvain's charming face told Chris that she was well aware of what their hostess was up to. Her hand was pleasantly cool, and the large diamond on the third finger of her right hand and her hyphenated name told their own story. Chris remembered her ex as a colourful and entertaining oilman from the U.S. who three or four years ago had sold his company to an income trust and retired with a new trophy wife to a tax haven in the Caribbean. Chris had met Jim Milvain a couple of times at oil patch receptions but had never had occasion to meet his first wife. Sarah was poised and articulate. Chris congratulated himself on having such an agreeable companion for the evening.
The Taylors were the last to arrive. Standing in the entrance at the top of a short flight of stairs, Cameron Taylor, the patriarch of the ranching family, doffed his white Stetson and apologized for being so late, saying that the road in from Longview had been blocked by an overturned cattle liner.
"They needed some help to round them up," added his wife. Phyllis Taylor was a tall, handsome woman. Chris knew she was originally from a small town in Ontario, but she had thrown herself into the ranching lifestyle with wholehearted enthusiasm and could hold her own with any cowboy.
"They couldn't have asked for more expert help than the Taylors," Marie Church laughed, kissing Phyllis on both cheeks. "Alberta's pre-eminent ranching family!"
Watching Taylor carefully place his trademark hat on a closet shelf, Chris reflected that many would think it an affectation, but he knew it was a genuine part of the rancher's persona. A past president of the Calgary Stampede, he was one of its biggest boosters, as well as being a third-generation rancher and running some 2,200 head of Hereford cattle on the Bent Tree ranch in the foothills. Both he and his wife were in their early sixties; they were accompanied by their son, Cameron Jr.—always called Cam to avoid confusion with his father—and Melanie, their daughter-in-law.
It had been some months since Chris had last seen the Taylors, and he was struck anew by the resemblance between father and son. Both were of medium height, with powerful, stocky builds and rather snub facial features. Their similarities ran deeper than the physical resemblance. Cam was every bit as dedicated to the ranching way of life as was his father.
"Hi, neighbour!" Cameron Taylor greeted Sarah warmly, taking both her hands in his. Still smiling, he shook hands with Chris, who waited for him to make his usual joke about the ongoing range war between the police and criminals. He always said that the good guys were winning, although he never said who the good guys were. But the recent epidemic of killings didn't lend itself to harmless banter.
"So you're neighbours," said Chris when the Taylors had moved on to mingle with the other guests.
"Country neighbours." Sarah smiled. "My place is twenty kilometres south of Bent Tree."
"Somehow I can't picture you running a ranch."
"I don't. But I do live on an acreage near Longview. My daughter, Linda, is horse crazy, so we moved out there where she can keep her horses. We both love it. Do you ride, Detective Crane?"
"Don't call me that! Please. My name is Chris. I can ride, although I haven't for some years." This wasn't the time to mention his horse show career. He wondered if he was about to be invited to go riding with her, but they were swept up in a swirl of party conversation before she could say anything more.
"Let's go outside! It's too nice to stay indoors," someone exclaimed, and Chris and Sarah joined the exodus of guests through the open sliding doors.
"They've done a wonderful job with this place," she murmured.
"Superb," Chris agreed inhaling the cool summer air. "Spectacular, in fact."
Indeed, the Churches' Mount Royal home was spectacular. It commanded an unobstructed view of the downtown skyline, and its spacious grounds covered two residential lots. After tearing down the original house and constructing a huge, ultra-modern mansion, complete with indoor swimming pool, in its place, they'd purchased the adjoining property and built a tennis court where the house had once stood.
"It must be wonderful to live here!" Glancing to one side, Chris saw the speaker was Melanie Taylor. No hyphenated name for her. Not in that family. Melanie was short, with a figure just beginning to verge on chunky and tightly waved dark hair. Because of his friendship with Cam, Chris was an occasional dinner guest at the Taylor ranch and knew she was originally from Toronto. She and Cam had met while both were attending the University of Toronto. A city girl like her could easily grow weary of life on the remote ranch and long to be back at the centre of things. Especially for someone who, according to Tom Forsyth, had been a real hottie before meeting and marrying Cam.
Cam was saying something about the magnificent view of the Rockies from their ranch, but Chris, distracted by the sudden intrusion of Tom into his thoughts, scarcely heard him. When he tuned back in, Melanie was suggesting that the four of them find a table on the terrace and sit together for the buffet dinner.
After they had taken a few bites of the first course, a baby shrimp salad, Chris asked Cam about how things were at the ranch. A few years ago when mad cow disease was ravaging the cattle industry, he would never have raised the subject. But now the panic created by a single case of bovine spongiform encephalopathy—the jaw-breaking scientific name of the disease reminding Chris of Joan and her disability—had subsided, and international borders were once again open to Canadian beef.
The rancher's response was enthusiastic and upbeat. A steady stream of cattle trucks were once more heading south to the American market. The Western Canadian herds that had been so severely culled as a result of the trade embargos were being restored to former levels, which created a tremendous demand for top breeding bulls. Last fall's sale—Bent Tree's seventy-fourth annual bull sale, as Cam pointed out proudly—had seen record prices. This year's sale promised to do even better.
"That makes it the seventy-fifth!"
Sarah marvelled. "Seventy-five consecutive years with no interruption. Good times and bad times."
"That calls for a celebration!"
"Plans are well underway. It's going to be one major blowout!"
"Speaking of parties," Melanie asked Sarah, "are you going to the ATP fundraiser next week?"
"I'll be there."
"Then why don't you come with us? We can call for you if you like." She paused and glanced uncertainly at Chris. "Unless, of course ..."
"I'd like that," Sarah replied smoothly into the awkward silence. "I'll call you tomorrow to arrange things."
For the rest of the meal conversation flowed along familiar channels. The ideal weather of spring and early summer was touched upon with the reassuring qualifier that there had been enough moisture to ensure a good crop, the upcoming Stampede was noted, and the latest example of Ottawa's lack of interest in western concerns was briefly and dismissively mentioned. Finally, inevitably, the subject of the serial killer was raised.
"This person obviously has a thing for public parks," said Sarah putting her fork down and looking at Chris. "Shouldn't that give you a clue as to his identity? I would think a profiler could do something with that."
"I'm sure it's been factored in." His reply was deliberately noncommittal, and his tone made it clear that he didn't intend to discuss the case. Everyone at the party would know he was involved in the investigation, and anything he said would be seized on and repeated. The killer's choice of parks as venues for disposing of the bodies had not only been factored in, it was both a vital clue and a frustrating complication in the profiler's analysis. Dr. Mavis Ross, the consultant psychiatrist on retainer to the police, was more at home doing geographic profiling, working out the radius, often very small, of a killer's operations from his home base. So far the profiler had tentatively concluded that the killer was male, physically strong—no surprises there!—sexually inadequate with a hatred of women, sadistic, and an exhibitionist. The last characteristic she inferred from the way he displayed the bodies of his victims, rather than trying to hide them. She agreed that the crosses being on different hands was significant and could indicate that two killers were at work. The existence of the crosses was a holdback by the police, and the fact that they were always present tended to contradict the possibility of there being two killers. But the copycat, if indeed there was one, could have learned of it somehow. Scott Millard, for example, almost certainly knew ...
Chris's reverie was brief, but still long enough to be noticed. He came out of it to find Sarah looking at him with amused cool grey eyes. "Sorry," he apologized. "I was thinking about something there for a minute."
"Parks, maybe?"
He was saved from having to reply when some friends came up to talk to Sarah. Diners were leaving their tables and joining together in groups as servers began to remove dishes and table cloths. Chris and his three companions remained together, chatting with the other guests. They were listening to a local member of the legislature expounding on the need to conserve the province's vital water resources when Cameron Taylor came up to tap his son on the shoulder. "We have a long drive ahead of us, and tomorrow we move the B herd to summer pasture."
"And I have an even longer drive," said Sarah, joining the increasing trickle of guests bidding goodnight to the hosts.
"I'll see you to your car." Chris fell in beside her.
When they stepped out from the front entrance they found the Taylors admiring the Ferrari, parked as usual in the driveway at Doug Church's insistence. They were familiar with the car from Chris's occasional visits to their ranch.
"She's beautiful, Chris," Cam called back over his shoulder as he and his family continued walking up the driveway. "But you know something? I wouldn't trade my champion cutting horse for her."
"Now there's a real ranching dynasty!" exclaimed Chris. "Four generations!"
"It's about to come to an end." Sarah replied.
"Oh? How come?"
"Melanie can't have children. She was born without a uterus. There's nothing that can be done."
"Yet Cam still married her. Must have been true love."
"She didn't tell him until after they were married. He puts a pretty good face on it, but his parents were livid."
"I can imagine."
"Cam is right. She is gorgeous." Sarah gently touched the gleaming hood of the sports car. "So this is what they call Ferrari red."
She probably also thought it was an unlikely vehicle for a police detective to be driving but didn't mention it. Class, thought Chris.
"Your wheels aren't exactly shabby!" he chuckled as they approached the high-end Mercedes sedan and she dug the keys out of her purse. The rumour was that she had received a $10-million divorce settlement.
She pressed a button on her key chain and there was a click as the doors unlocked. Turning, she held out her hand. They looked at each other in the light of a street lamp, both with the hint of a smile and a look of wariness in their eyes.
"I enjoyed the evening," she said.
"So did I. Very much."
"Goodnight, then."
"Goodnight."