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RILEY OPENED THE JOURNAL beside her at the kitchen table, sipping at her tea after breakfast. There was a lengthy entry from Detective Winston.
May 13 ’97
Dear Riley,
I do not understand the mechanism that enables our communication. I purchased this book shortly after arriving in Vancouver, and until recently it appeared to be like any other. But I have reached the conclusion that your theory, that the journal somehow connects us, is correct.
Perhaps there is a way I may be able to use our connection in my investigation. As you predicted through the headline you shared, another man, Edmund Chase, has disappeared. You indicated you have found his file, so you’ll know he failed to return home after an evening out.
This development compounded the events of these long and difficult days, which included the discovery of Huntington’s body. I have spoken to a worried and fretful wife, visited a distraught and disbelieving mother, and sat with a woman who doesn’t know if she will be able to publicly mourn Huntington’s loss.
I’ve asked for copies of Edmund Chase’s most recent letters and have correspondence Huntington received after he disappeared. You offered to help. Do you have access to these letters in the files? If so, please share your thoughts after reading them. I cannot see how doing so might compromise time.
Riley straightened her back against the chair. A shiver passed through her shoulders. Detective Winston believed her. And now he wanted her help.
I’ve reflected on your final question about whether I am certain Huntington drowned. I rely on Doctor Cole’s expertise as to cause of death. Men drown regularly; it’s a hazard of living so near the water. However, I return to Huntington’s shoes being on the wrong feet. The man may have drowned, but I wonder if he didn’t have some assistance. One would need to be rather more than a little drunk to make such an error, and nothing I’ve learned about Huntington suggests more than casual social drinking. While Cole initially appeared to miss the shoes, the unrelenting rain and his having just identified a patient no doubt served as distractions. I certainly didn’t want to linger.
The question of where Huntington spent his final weeks remains, as does how he ended up near False Creek.
The detective was hesitant to draw easy conclusions as to Huntington’s cause of death. Riley liked his approach.
I know now that his love interest was the employee of a railway executive rather than the daughter of one, as Mrs. Huntington and Doctor Cole both suggested to me. Mrs. Huntington admitted the story was her fabrication, and she must have told it to Cole and quite likely others to protect her dignity, if not her son’s reputation. Could his relationship with this woman have had anything to do with his death?
The writing changed here, as if Detective Winston had returned to the journal after a break. The next two lines were more cramped, almost rushed. Riley hesitated to touch the page as her palms grew sweaty.
As you have both distance and time to your advantage, I wonder if you can discover something I cannot when you read through the men’s files.
Yours truly,
Detective JM Winston
Riley gulped the last of her tea and hurried to finish getting ready for work. A growing sense of confidence in her plans for the exhibit sent a rush of energy through her limbs. She could profile Detective Winston and his investigative techniques, and she could help him at the same time.
WHEN RILEY ARRIVED at the archive, she pulled out the Chase and Huntington files. Tucked neatly at the back of each file were the copies of correspondence Detective Winston had referred to. She hadn’t been able to spare the time to read them the day before.
Constable Miller had copied them with a steady hand, though time had faded the ink and softened the edges of the pages. The contents conveyed news from Chase’s mother about people Riley assumed Chase knew, though his mother may have been like her own, sharing stories about people he didn’t have a clue about. In the three letters from his mother, only the most recent referred to Chase’s wife: I trust the woman you married keeps a fine home. An odd way to ask about a daughter-in-law. Chase’s unsent reply ignored the slight.
Louella has settled into life in this fine city quite well. I will let her know you asked after her.
I too have been settling into the city. My work is manageable, and I rather enjoy seeing Rupert daily. However, I have decided to make a change, which I’m afraid does not please him. I am planning to open a shop offering fine clothing at reasonable prices. I have found a man who is pursuing a career as a tailor. Together we will run the business. We are searching for investors. Please say nothing to Father as I intend to send him a proposal. This is an opportunity I am certain will benefit him.
Riley flipped through her notes. Chase worked at the railway with a close friend. Why was he abandoning that to open a store? Was he pursuing his dream? How did his wife feel about him leaving a stable job to do so? Much like someone’s partner would feel in the same situation now—insecure.
Riley closed her eyes and rested her hands on the files. How to proceed without impacting the case? But wasn’t that what she was hoping to do, help Winston find Chase? For a brief moment she considered leaving the past alone and shoving the journal into another box for someone else to find. As soon as she formed the thought, she dismissed it. The journal drew her to it; the connection wouldn’t let her walk away. And Winston needed her help.
She checked the time. Claire had said she would send Nick to the archive this morning, but it was still thirty minutes before most staff would arrive at the museum. She hurried to the back of the room to retrieve the pair of poster boards she’d stowed behind a bookcase.
At the top of one she wrote Huntington and the other, Chase. She taped the two boards together so she could close them facing each other. Under each name she wrote the dates they went missing, and for Huntington, when police found his body. She listed their ages, occupations, marital status, and family members. On a copy of a map of the city, circa 1897, she pinned their homes, offices, and where each man was last seen before disappearing. She photocopied the letters and was tucking them into pockets she’d added to each board when the archive door opened.
Riley froze as Nick Blume entered. He’d tucked his blond hair behind his ears, reminding her of a surfer.
“Riley? Claire suggested you might need a little help down here.” He surveyed the room and then walked toward her. “What do you have there?”
Heart racing, Riley closed the posters onto each other, hoping she looked calmer than she felt. She pressed her hands into her sides to stop fiddling with the pages in front of her. “I think ... visually,” she stammered. “I was just trying to sort out some of this stuff.” She looked toward a shelf across the room. When Nick followed her gaze, she swept the papers into a box and cringed, a wave of guilt washing over her. He turned back, eyes searching. Had he seen her act so carelessly?
Nick slung his backpack from his shoulder and set it on a stool. “Why don’t I show you how I organize my thoughts.” He pulled his computer from his bag. When he looked up, his brows furrowed. “Are you okay? Has Claire left you here too long?”
Riley stepped from behind the work counter. “You startled me, that’s all. I forgot she was sending you down here today.”
Nick shook his head, holding his hands up. “I get it. You’ve been working alone on this for a few weeks. I’m attached to my work, too. I don’t want to get in your way, so you tell me what you’re doing and how you want to approach things.”
Riley bit her lip. She could distract Nick for a few minutes and rescue the files she’d just treated as though they were recycling. Willing herself not to look toward the box, she pointed Nick toward the back of the room and asked him to sort through the boxes there. “I’ll join you in a few minutes. I need to finish something here.”
As Nick walked past her, Riley forced her closed-mouth grimace into a smile, too late for him to see. Great, he probably thought she was flighty. She knelt in front of the box and examined the papers for damage. One had a new crease that she tried to smooth out, and the rest had escaped any permanent impact from her haste. Sweat dampened her shirt. She added the damaged page to her mental tally of slights against the materials she was supposed to preserve.
Riley shoved the photocopied pages into a folder in her bag to review later. She was sorting the originals when Nick pushed a wheeled cart toward her. “Do you mind if I work up here? The light is better.”
Riley stared at the counter. If she came across as shy, Nick might leave her to work quietly. She couldn’t help Detective Winston with Nick peering over her shoulder. When she raised her head, he stood in front of her, reaching for the newly creased page.
“I shudder at the state some of these have been left in, don’t you? That people would be so careless?”
Nodding her agreement, Riley flushed and pulled back her hand when her fingers started shaking. “It’s always sad to see poorly treated documents,” she mumbled.
“Here. Try this.” Nick smoothed his hands over the page, then pulled two sheets of paper from the photocopier and tucked the damaged page between them. He picked up a box from the shelf and positioned it on top of the paper sandwich. “We can check on this tomorrow. The page will have flattened somewhat.”
“Where did you learn that?”
“I’ve picked up a few things. Didn’t you learn any tricks at school?”
“We learned restoration, but nothing like that. Will it work?”
“It won’t be perfect,” Nick said. “But in time it’ll be flat. Any others we should smooth out?”
“I’ve seen more pages with water damage than anything else. I’ve been noting which ones on my spreadsheet.” Riley turned her laptop toward Nick.
He whistled. “Impressive organization skills. Are you a librarian?” He laughed at his own joke and leaned closer to the computer. “Do you need to track all these fields?”
Riley ran her finger along the top of the screen. “Probably not, but I figure it will be easier to find something again if we’ve noted these details. I’ve just expanded the index I started with.”
“May I?” He started scrolling through the screen. “Reverse engineering the original archivist?”
“Something like that. If we don’t need this information, we can delete it later. That’s way easier than trying to add it in.”
“Mind if I add something?”
Riley relaxed into the rhythm of working with him on the spreadsheet. Maybe it would be okay working with Nick.