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RILEY FINCH LET A BOX drop with a thud onto the counter, blinking as a plume of dust reached her eyes. She lifted the lid and realized she had already reviewed most of the files inside. What was up? Her brain was a jumble—Detective Winston’s journal, the newly missing man, the exhibit. Claire would soon notice Riley’s scattered behaviour if she didn’t start concentrating.
Riley pulled a printed copy of the article with the headline Detective Winston had asked for from her pocket and smoothed it beside the box. Had she revealed too much by telling him about another missing man? She’d shared no details that might affect the investigation, only that it would happen, and only because he asked for proof that she really wrote to him from the future. How had he felt when he’d read the headline? Surprised? Frustrated? Disappointed? All three?
She longed to help. She could use the information in the files to nudge Detective Winston toward information he would soon discover. Maybe he would only discover it with her help. She rubbed her temples, her mind spinning with altered timelines and shifting realities. After a minute, she tucked the article into her jeans pocket and circled into the next row of shelves to switch the box for one she had not yet reviewed. She focused on cross-checking the contents against her master list, pausing at a file labelled “Chase.” It contained a handwritten page with summary notes and a few pages of what appeared to be correspondence.
Mr. Edmund Chase
Reported missing: May 13, 1897
Last seen: May 12, 1897
Age: 27 years
Address: Haro Street
Note: lives with his wife, works for Pacific National Railway
Investigating officer: Jack Winston
Where was the rest of the file? She flicked through the others in the box, but none had his name. Huntington’s file had included a death certificate. Did that mean Chase didn’t die, or just that the file was incomplete? She might find more as she organized the other boxes. Until then, she’d have to work with what she had, just like Detective Jack Winston.
She was a researcher, and it was time to research. Edmund Chase shared a similar background to Walter Huntington. He’d disappeared the same day the police had discovered Huntington’s body. Coincidence? Riley reached for her bag to retrieve the journal only to remember she’d left it at home, rightly thinking she’d gain focus if she couldn’t look at it every few minutes.
Now she could only think of writing to ask Detective Winston her questions. Riley closed the Chase file. If she continued reading, she would know more than he did. Didn’t seem fair.
The archive door opened, the sudden sound causing Riley to drop the document in her hand. She reached to pick it up, blowing a sigh through pursed lips.
“How is it going down here?” Claire asked, stepping into the room.
“I ... a ... a little slower than—I mean, I’m making progress. It’s a little slower than I had hoped.” Riley felt her hands wave wildly as she spoke. Her cheeks burned. Why was she so nervous?
Claire smiled. “It’s hard not to get wrapped up in what you find. Have you read more about the case you mentioned earlier?”
Riley hesitated, unsure which case Claire was referring to. “I’m making my way through.” She gestured at the shelf.
“Well, make sure you take a break. I’ve come down to see if you might want someone to help you. Nick Blume is wrapping up a project. I’ll see if he can spend a few days down here.”
Riley gulped and looked at the files. “Nick? Isn’t he more focused on natural history?”
Claire’s face clouded. Was it with concern or disappointment?
“He’s a researcher, like you. It would be good for you to learn from him.”
“What about a few hours tomorrow?” Was Riley wrong to suggest she didn’t need help? “I’m on a roll and want to see how far I get today.” She tried to rub her clammy palms on her jeans without Claire noticing.
“Good. I’ll tell him.” Claire tapped her finger to her lips. “Okay, I’ll leave you to it. You can give me an update by the end of the week.” She turned on her heel with a little shrug.
Riley waited until the door of the archive room clicked shut before slumping on her stool. Nick would mess up her system. And she wouldn’t be able to bring the journal to work if he might catch her writing in it. Claire must think she’s overwhelmed or can’t handle the work. Riley vowed to spend the rest of the day working on the exhibit.
The exhibit. Could she convince Claire it should focus on Detective Winston and early investigative techniques? That way she could look deeper into Huntington and Chase, especially since Huntington’s body had been found. Her stomach churned.
Riley looked around. Claire was right. She needed a break. She grabbed her bag and stepped out of the room.
THE SHORT WALK FOR a jolt of afternoon caffeine had refreshed Riley. She returned to the archive and emailed Claire with her proposed theme for the exhibit, feeling confident that Claire would agree. While she waited for a reply, she reached for Huntington’s file.
Though she had no police training, Riley had logged years as an avid viewer of crime dramas and reader of detective novels. How would her favourite detectives investigate these cases? They always had incident rooms, with pictures plastered on a whiteboard. Riley turned, scanning the room. She couldn’t turn the archive into an incident room. What about making a poster board, showing every-thing she knew about Huntington and Chase? She walked down the centre aisle of the archive and glanced at the bookcase against the back wall. Nobody would know if she stored the poster board behind it.
She returned to Huntington’s folder. If she understood his disappearance, she might help find Chase. She read the death certificate:
Name and surname of deceased: Walter Huntington
When died: On or about 11th May 1897
Sex: Male
Age: 30 years
Rank or profession: Solicitor
Where born: Canada
Certified cause of death and duration of illness: Accidental drowning. Body discovered within 12 hrs following death.
Name of physician, if any: Dr. Cole
When registered: 11th May 1897
Religious denomination: Protestant
Remarks: Deceased was found after being missing for several weeks. As the drowning was accidental, no inquest is deemed necessary.
No mention of Huntington being bound or any bruising on the body, which must have led the doctor to determine the death was accidental. Did that mean that wherever he had been while missing, he’d been there voluntarily? Or if he was held against his will, there was little risk of his escaping; no need to restrain him.
Riley put her pen down. The area where his body was found was now a residential area with a public path following the perimeter of False Creek. During Detective Winston’s time it was the city’s indus-trial centre, with rail yards, shipbuilders, and mills. How accessible would these areas have been to the public? A quick search retrieved an image from the city’s online archive showing limited development and a considerably larger waterway. It’s possible that Huntington could have fallen into the water at another spot and his body floated to the foundry with the movement of the tides.
Drowning victims. Suddenly Jules popped into her mind. She hadn’t seen her friend in weeks. He must have seen drowning victims during the couple of years he worked as an assistant to the coroner. She sent him a text to see if he was around.
Riley found no other useful documents in the file. The case notes from 1897, written in Detective Winston’s neat handwriting, showed he considered the case to be closed after finding no further evidence. She was collecting the files when her phone rang.
“Riley, it’s Jules. So glad to get your text! I have some news. Are you free tonight?”
She smiled. Jules’s boundless energy might be just what she needed. “Sure. Where? I should finish in about thirty minutes.”
RILEY STUDIED THE FACADES of the buildings along Water Street as she walked to the pub. They were largely unchanged since their construction in the nineteenth century. The low-rise buildings cast long shadows in the late afternoon sun, and when she squinted, she imagined Detective Winston walking these sidewalks. She let the sound of car tires dissolve into the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and cartwheels rolling on the cobblestones.
The pub Jules had chosen, one of the oldest in the city, had few patrons inside when Riley arrived. Her friend fit the accountant stereotype well. He preferred not to part with more money than necessary, even though he could easily afford to frequent nicer venues. Gentrification had yet to reach this local dive, though Riley suspected it wouldn’t be long before the sleek, modern style meant to attract young professionals and tourists would replace the dark interior. They’d substitute an infusion of custom scent for the current eau de stale beer. Riley was comfortable with the darkness. It suited her mood.
Jules sat in the far corner and stood when Riley approached the table. Tension washed out of her at his hug. It had been too long. Their mothers had worked together before having children. Jules was born a year before Riley and the year after Lucy, and the families had spent holidays together. While Riley was in graduate school and Jules completed his accounting certification, they’d drifted apart. With their studies now behind them, Riley hoped to see more of her friend.
“The stubble looks good on you,” she said, rubbing her own chin. “As does this suit.” She tugged at the cuff of his jacket’s sleeve. Fine clothing was perhaps Jules’s greatest indulgence. And no wonder—he wore it well.
They exchanged pleasantries and ordered drinks from a tired-looking waitress. Jules leaned in. “I’ve met someone.”
“Fantastic! Tell me.” Riley squeezed his hand. “When, where?”
“We met through a friend here. But he lives in the UK. In London. He was visiting, and we hit it off.”
Riley tapped her index finger on the table, dislodging crumbs from a crack. “How do you spend time together if you live on different continents?”
“We text and video chat. It’s nice, because we are getting to know each other without the pressure of anything in the bedroom. But the week he was here was hot.” Jules stared at the table and Riley watched the colour rise in her friend’s face.
“When do you see him next?”
The waitress returned with their drinks, placing them on the table with silent detachment.
“I’m heading there the week after next for work.”
“Can you do that often?”
“I’m applying for a six-month transfer to test if it’s worth pursuing.” Jules sipped his drink. “But it totally is.”
Riley took a drink, letting it warm in her mouth before swallowing. “When would you move?”
Jules looked into Riley’s eyes. “If this trip works, they want me there to start as soon as possible.” Jules sat back and groaned. “I just want to be there, Riley.”
“Sounds like an adventure. And it’s so great you can transfer with work.” The knot in her stomach grew as she spoke the words.
“How’s your new job? Aren’t you working on a special project?”
Riley’s cheeks flushed as she pictured the journal. “My what?”
“Your job. You’re at the museum now, full time, right? Are you still researching actresses from the twenties?”
Riley sipped her drink, the flutter in her stomach settling. “That was for school, my final semester project. I was looking at actresses who went to Hollywood hoping to follow Mary Pickford’s success. It was a good decade for her.” She shifted in the booth. “I’m not doing any personal research now because of this new job.” Riley traced a pattern on the table, unsuccessfully trying to avoid sticky spots.
“Any races coming up?”
She shook her head. “I’m taking a break from running. There is a race in the fall I might register for, but I’ll see. The job ...” She trailed off.
“Come run a race in London.” He took a long drink. “But you’re enjoying the job so far, even if it’s keeping you busy?”
How much should she tell Jules? Nothing about the journal. What about her interest in the case? “The job is great. They’ve given me a project—an online exhibit to support an upcoming in-person one opening in a few months. I just suggested an idea to my boss to have the exhibit explore the lives of police officers in the early days of Vancouver’s police force.” She paused for a sip of beer. “I spend time with old documents.” Another sip. “I love it.”
“Have you found anything interesting?”
She set her glass down and reached to wipe at a ring it had left on the table, then pulled away. “Yes. And I wanted to ask you about it. I was reading a copy of a death certificate from one of the old case files. The man had drowned. How would you expect the body to look?”
Jules flicked the corner of the beer mat. “With drowning, it’s hard to say. And it’s a difficult ruling for the coroner to make. It depends on how long it was in the water. Was he drunk?”
“I don’t know. Does it matter? The file doesn’t list what tests the medical examiner performed, but it says the body was in the water for about twelve hours.”
“Falling into water while drunk definitely leads to drowning. Like I said, it is difficult to determine. Can I see the file?”
Riley pointed at her bag. “I made a copy. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them I needed a professional consultation.”
Jules laughed. “With an accountant?”
“Who is a former coroner’s assistant? Or have you forgotten?” She pulled the sheets from a folder in her bag and slid them toward Jules.
He looked down at his beer and swallowed. “I haven’t forgotten. It was the trauma.” Locking eyes with her, he continued. “The things we do to each other. And to ourselves.”
Riley had never asked why her friend changed careers. Could she have been more supportive? “You prefer cold numbers now?”
Jules circled his finger along the rim of his glass. “And the hours. They’re long, but there are considerably fewer overnights stuck in an office.”
“And the numbers are portable. You can be an accountant anywhere.” Riley touched Jules’s arm. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too. I can return if it doesn’t work.” He grinned. “I hope it does.”
“I’m sure it will.” She grinned back. “Before you go, you’ll look at the file?”
“I’m sure there are better resources.”
“Possibly, but I don’t know them. And it’s for my curiosity more than anything else.”
“Happy to help.”
The indifferent waitress took another drink order from the pair and they continued discussing Jules’s plans. When they’d drained their glasses, Riley stood, head cloudy from the beer. “Thanks, Jules. This was great. I am so thrilled for you. Let me know what you find in those papers.” She hugged her friend, agreeing to see him at least once more before he left.
THE CRACKLING RECORDING of popular 1920s songs filtered through Riley’s apartment. She’d listened to it when researching Mary Pickford. Its scratchy sound helped Riley place herself in a different time. Detective Winston had likely heard the same songs when they were originally released.
As she hummed along, she pulled out a notepad and started listing what Huntington and Chase had in common. Both worked in professional positions, though in different fields. Ping. Her laptop announced an email. She flipped it open to turn off notifications so she could think, pausing when she saw it was a note from Jules. He’d already looked at the files and sent along his observations, bless him.
Riley, so good to see you tonight. I looked at the papers you copied for me. If only I could have gotten away with so little paperwork! Anyway, like I said earlier, drownings are tough. Nothing in the documents refers to head injuries or something else that might suggest he’d been injured before hitting the water. You might expect to see this in drowning victims, especially if they’d been drinking. They hit a rock or the side of a dock, and it knocks them out. I guess there’s no way for you to tell whether that was the case with this death.
Hope that helps.
XX JK
She did have a way of finding out if Huntington’s body had other injuries. But would she use it? She fired off a quick thank you to Jules and pulled the journal from her bedside table. She looked at the book, weighing the power it held. A shiver quaked through her shoulders.
Riley chose the middle road, a tactful inquiry that—she hoped—sidestepped the complications of knowing more about drowning victims than Detective Winston did.
Dear Detective Winston,
Today in the archives I discovered the file of another missing man, Edmund Chase. It’s a little thin on details. Do you think anything connects Huntington and Chase and their disappearances? Is it possible they knew each other?
I’ve read Huntington’s death certificate. It was in the files at the museum. Can you tell me more about what made Doctor Cole say Huntington drowned accidentally? A friend of mine explained to me that even now it can be difficult to identify drowning as the cause of death.
Did you watch the autopsy? What did Cole say when you asked about Huntington’s shoes on the wrong feet?
The researcher in Riley had so many questions to ask about Detective Winston’s life and this investigation. She hovered her pencil over the book, considering what else to write. Fuelled by beer bravery, she added a final question before signing off and returning the journal to her bag.
Are you certain Huntington drowned?
Sincerely,
Riley
Riley emerged from her bedroom to hear the click of the door. Lucy. Riley waited in her bedroom doorway, opposite the apartment door.
Her sister entered laden with reusable shopping bags. She brightened when she saw Riley. “I’m glad you’re home.”
“I got in about twenty minutes ago, after meeting Jules for a drink after work.”
Lucy set her bags down and scanned her sister leaning against the door frame and grinned. “You sure it was only one drink? You look a little ...” Lucy rolled her eyes and mimed tipping a bottle to her lips.
Heat warmed Riley’s cheeks and she stuck her tongue out. “Maybe two. It doesn’t matter.”
“Very mature,” Lucy said, sticking her own tongue out. “How’s Jules?” Lucy slipped out of her heels.
“He’s great. Soon moving overseas for love.” Riley pushed aside her growing sadness at Jules’s news. Lucy picked up two bags, and the sisters moved into the kitchen. Riley turned off the music.
“That’s big!”
“Yeah, huge. He’s excited.”
Lucy started unpacking the groceries. “How did everything go with your mystery book?”
Riley froze, the bag in her hand suspended above the counter. “Book?”
“The one you brought home the other day. Were you going to restore it? You seemed excited.”
Riley couldn’t talk to her about the journal. Lucy would say she was dreaming, imagining things, or worse. “I had to remove a few marks left by a careless reader.” She avoided her sister’s eyes. “All done. Where are you off to tonight?” Riley shifted the topic. “Do you think I could join you?”
“I was planning to stay in and catch up with you.” Lucy nudged her sister out of the way with her hip. “But if you’re serious, I can probably find somewhere for us to go.”
Riley bit her cheek, the moment passing. “Never mind. Let’s make dinner, go buy some junk food, and binge-watch something.”
Lucy pointed at the final bag. “I’m ahead of you; I already bought treats for us.”
The sisters caught up over dinner and settled into watching Riley’s favourite crime series, Lady Smallington Mysteries, the type of evening Riley loved.
After the third episode, Lucy turned to her sister. “Hey, you were playing your old music when I got home. It’s been a while since you’ve had it on. Are you still working on that project?”
“I finished it last semester.” She flicked a hand to dismiss the idea. “I was just feeling nostalgic, I guess.”
“Don’t get stuck in the past.” Lucy reached for some popcorn. “Remember that life is happening right now.”
“When did you become such a philosopher?”
Lucy tilted her head and played with a lock of hair, affecting a dramatic pout. “I’m more than a pretty face, you know.”
“And I’m not stuck in the past. It’s just that work keeps me busy. Sometimes I get home just before you.”
“Wow, they’re driven over at the museum. Who knew?”
Riley squared her shoulders at her sister’s needling. “Oh, they’re not forcing me to stay. I—I’ve just been working on an upcoming exhibit. I want to show them what I can do.”
Sweat dampened Riley’s underarms. “In fact, I want to show you something.” She sprang to her feet, but with each step toward her bedroom, her legs grew heavier. She looked back at her sister, scrolling through something on her phone. Lucy wouldn’t understand.
Lucy looked up from her phone as Riley sat down. “What are you showing me?”
“Oh, it was a cool old photo from the archives. I thought I’d stuck a copy in my bag, but I guess I forgot.” She picked up a piece of popcorn. “Looks like the next episode is starting.”
Riley’s pulse began to return to normal. That was close. What would happen if the journal were no longer a secret?