Don’t you think we should tell the sergeant?” Bob asked. He was driving the way he always did, eyes straight ahead, both hands on the wheel. The roads were dry as bleached bone now but still narrowed by icy snowbanks on either side. As the crow flies, it was a short hop from Sue’s apartment to the station, but the one-way streets turned the trip into a labyrinth.
The sun, just days from its winter solstice, was barely making it over the rooftops and its pale glare was blinding. No warmth to it, though; the car thermometer read minus fifteen and the exhaust from cars and chimneys billowed white in the bitter air.
Sue suppressed a shiver as she figured out an answer. “We will,” she said, “but Inspector Green assigned us some background checks, so I think we should do those before we tell anyone our theory.” She could see the little smile on his lips, and she knew he didn’t want to report in to Marie Claire Levesque any more than she did. This was their case and the inspector had made the requests to them personally, so she was damned if Levesque was going to get all the glory for their work.
Luckily, when they arrived at the station, the sergeant wasn’t even there. Murder cases didn’t take days off—how many times had Sue seen the inspector work all week without a break—but Levesque was probably off tobogganing with her daughter.
Let’s not go there, she chided herself, pulling herself back to the task at hand. Marriage, kids, the impossible Mommy dance—that was getting ahead of herself. It was bad enough she was now staring at a spring wedding!
She stopped at her desk next to Bob’s, and they hung up their coats and fired up their computers in perfect unison. He looked at her and laughed. On the way over, they had divided up the computer searches, with Bob ferreting out the links and her following along behind to jot down any relevant findings. No one navigated the web like Bob, and if there was information to be found linking Lise Gravelle to Elena Longstreet or the Kennedys, he would find it.
At the end of three hours, they’d found precious little, although Bob claimed that in itself was significant. From what he could find, Lise had never crossed paths with Elena, either as a client, witness or adversary. They did not belong to the same associations, support the same charities or frequent the same online sites. In fact, although Elena showed up on the web all over the place, Lise’s cyber footprint was very small. Almost invisible. The woman barely existed. There were a couple of payments to the Parti Quebecois, some charitable donations to Médecins sans Frontières and Plan, nothing more.
By comparison, Elena was a cyber star, showing up on the boards of several charities and law associations, frequently featured in the social columns and lifestyle pages of both Toronto and Ottawa newspapers. Interviews with local radio and television stations were archived on sites. The woman was a passionate defender of the Charter of Rights, which may have been Prime Minister Trudeau’s proudest achievement and a defence attorney’s best friend, but an obstructive pain in the ass to law enforcement efforts across the country.
Still, as she listened to the videos and read the articles, Sue couldn’t help admiring the woman. She’d fought for respect and equality among the white-haired, middle-aged men who controlled positions of power in the legal profession. She’d quit a prominent law firm in Toronto when she found herself bashing her head against its glass ceiling, and she’d come to Ottawa to establish her own firm. Hired her own juniors, taken on the white-haired bastards in court, and won more times than not.
All the time raising a kid entirely on her own.
In all this blitz of media coverage, however, there wasn’t a single connection to the poor little invisible woman who worked as a hospital clerk in Montreal. Bob had even less luck with the Kennedys. Norah had virtually no presence on the web, only cropping up as the secretary of her local church women’s group and a few years ago on an amateur curling team. Reg had written some letters to the Citizen editor complaining about high city taxes, police inaction on low-level crimes such as vandalism, and the decline in parental supervision due to single-parent families. But besides being a complainer and a hard-nosed, law-and-order type, Reg Kennedy kept out of the spotlight. He was in their police system as witness to a few disturbances and impaired driving cases, but being a bartender, that was to be expected.
In his perusal of public records, however, Bob did discover one interesting fact. Both Reg and Norah had grown up in Montreal and had moved to Ottawa only after their marriage.
“Plus Elena Longstreet left Montreal in 1981. That’s all pre-internet, so if the connection between them all dates back to Montreal, it will be on paper records only,” he added in frustration.
“We need to find out what part of Montreal they grew up in, what schools they attended, what children’s camps, college activities...” Sue raised her eyebrow skeptically. “You think the Kennedys went to college?”
He shook his head. “Probably not, but the Quebec CEGEPs are like junior colleges, and I’ll bet back then there weren’t very many of them, so English kids from all over Montreal might have been thrown together. You have to go to CEGEP for two years before university, so even Elena would have attended. One way to find out. They’ll have records.” He reached for the phone.
“But Lise Gravelle is French.”
He hesitated in mid-dial before shaking his head. “Still worth a shot. We’re going to have to use the phone to get at this earlier background anyway.”
He looked adorable, bent over his computer clicking through links as he dialled with his other hand. She pulled herself to her feet stiffly and went over to drape her arms around his neck. She nibbled his ear. “It’s Sunday, Gibbsie. Nobody’s going to be there.”
He flushed deep red, jotted down a number and hung up.
“Damn.”
“We could just ask them, you know. Drive over to the Kennedys and ask them where they lived in Montreal, where they went to school, if they ever met Lise Gravelle.”
He turned into her arms. “The inspector just asked us to do background. Maybe he doesn’t want to tip them off just yet.”
“Tip them off about what?”
“About Lise Gravelle. That we suspect a connection.”
She stood up and snatched her jacket off her chair back. “For Pete’s sake, Gibbsie, we won’t give away any state secrets! It’s a routine inquiry, all part of trying to track down where their daughter might have gone.”
She knew he’d cave. He could never say no to her. As he drove them to the Kennedy home, she leafed through her notes and papers in Meredith’s case, trying to see if they’d overlooked some small detail she could use as a wedge. Her pulse jumped when she found one.
Norah and Reg Kennedy had just come home from church and were still in their finery—Reg looking like an undertaker in a navy wool pullover and white dress shirt, and Norah in a black knit dress that stuck to her in all the wrong places. The week of worrying had worn them out. Their skin was grey and their eyes had sunk into their skulls as if in retreat from the world. They flinched at the sight of the two detectives. The house smelled of a thousand foods—chocolate, basil, cabbage and vinegar. Sue suspected the parade of friends and helpers had continued all week, but the living room was so clean you could eat off the floor. Funny how some people cope.
Figuring to put their fears to rest, Sue spoke as soon as she sat down. “No news, I’m afraid. We’re just doing some routine follow-up to see if there’s anything we missed.”
Without her having to ask, Gibbs took out his notebook and let her lead. “Have you thought any more about who Meredith might have visited in Montreal?”
Norah shook her head. “She knows people there through her work, so maybe it was one of them.”
“You’re both from Montreal, right?”
A flicker crossed Norah’s face. The briefest hesitation. “Yes, but we moved here years ago.”
“Where did you live there?”
“Beaconsfield. It’s...” Norah gestured in vague dismissal. “It’s a suburb on the lakeshore. West Island.”
“Do you remember the address?”
Norah frowned. “I can’t see why...”
Sue improvised. “In case Meredith felt like tracing her roots.
Feeling sentimental…”
“There’s nothing sentimental about Montreal—”
Reg interrupted to supply an address, earning a scowl from Norah. “Anything that helps, Norah,” he said.
Norah watched Gibbs record the address. “I doubt anyone will remember us there now. Pretty well all our neighbours were leaving too. Probably all French now.”
Sue tried to sound casual and sympathetic. This Norah was proving a tough nut. “Is Beaconsfield where you two grew up as well?”
Norah snorted. “I wish! Neither one of our families could afford to own a home. We both grew up in a tougher neighbourhood near downtown.”
“You know Montreal?” Reg asked.
Sue shrugged, trying to sound believable. “I have relatives there.”
“Park Extension, in the top floors of duplexes.” he said. “Hot, airless and cramped. The Irish, the Jews and then the Greeks moved through there, kids grew up tough. Not mean—they had good, hardworking parents—but they learned the value of a dollar early.”
Sue shifted her stiff body so she could aim her next question at Reg. “Were there English schools around? Could you at least get a good education?”
“Oh yeah, we both finished high school no problem. There was no money for college, but that never held me back.”
“College? You mean CEGEP?”
“Oh, we went to CEGEP. Had to travel halfway across the city to get to the English one back then—”
“Dawson College?” Sue plucked the only name she knew.
“Yeah, it was free, and both Norah and me got our start that way—me in small business and her in typing and book-keeping—”
“Reggie!” Norah snapped. “I don’t see how the detectives could be interested in our life story.”
He was undaunted. “Norah even got her first job working for the police—”
“Reggie!”
“Wow,” Sue said. “Right in the mean streets of Montreal?”
Norah bolted to her feet, tugging to get her dress in line. “Where are my manners? How about some tea?” She was halfway through to the kitchen when she paused to glance back at her husband. Doubt was written all over her face. She doesn’t want to leave me alone with Mr. Chatterbox, Sue thought.
Sure enough, she returned and sank back on the sofa with an exaggerated sigh. “Reggie, why don’t you get us tea? I’m dead on my feet.”
Once he was gone, Sue turned to tackle Norah. “Did you ever meet a woman named Lise Gravelle during your Montreal days?”
“It was so long ago. I don’t recognize the name.”
“She’s the woman found frozen in the snowbank in Rockcliffe last week.”
“Oh! I never heard her name. Poor woman. She was from Montreal?” When Sue nodded, she shrugged. “Montreal’s a big place.”
“She never phoned here?”
“Here?” Norah’s tired eyes widened in shock. “Why should she?”
“To speak to Meredith. She phoned Meredith six times on her cell phone in the week before her death.”
Norah suppressed a gasp and stared at Sue in bewilderment.
In the stillness, the only sound was Reg moving around the kitchen, running water and clattering cups. Norah swallowed. “I have no idea why. Maybe Meredith knew her from work?”
“Meredith never mentioned her? Never asked about her?”
“No.”
Sue reached into her folder and drew out a single photocopied page containing the phone records to the Kennedy’s home line obtained through unofficial channels by Sergeant Li. She pretended to study it. “This is a record of Lise Gravelle’s phone calls.”
Norah recoiled. “What?”
“The records from her cell phone.”
“What—what…?” Norah reached for the paper, which Sue deftly moved from view. Luckily Bob didn’t utter a peep, just sat as transfixed as Norah.
“Sorry, this is confidential information. Part of a murder inquiry.”
Norah was silent, staring at Sue’s file. For added drama, Sue drew her finger down a column of numbers. “The records show she placed six calls to Meredith’s cell in the past two weeks. However, your home phone number also shows up on her list of calls.”
Still Norah said nothing. Sue could feel the faint quaking of her body on the sofa beside her. She softened her voice. “Lise Gravelle phoned this house last Monday evening.”
“I don’t understand. Maybe she was looking for Meredith?”
“Meredith wasn’t home. She never came home, remember?”
“But perhaps this woman called looking for her.”
“This call to your house was placed at 8:54 p.m. Just after she’d spoken to Meredith on her cell.”
“There was no call. I don’t remember a call.”
A footfall sounded in the hall and Reg appeared. “There was a wrong number, you remember, honey? While we were watching Little Mosque.”
Norah swung around to stare at him. She looked the colour of death. “What are you talking about?”
“I answered it, remember? A woman mumbled something and hung up.”
“Oh!” Colour rushed back into Norah’s face. She made a funny hiccupping sound. “Of course. So much has happened that I never gave it a moment’s thought. We get telemarketers all the time.”
“And you spoke to her for how long?”
“Oh...” Reg blew out a breath. “Seconds.”
Norah was still the colour of a corpse. Sue leaned towards her. “The records show the call lasted four minutes.”
“Nonsense.” Norah hiccupped again.
Again Reg stepped in. “I must have forgot to press the ‘off ’ button. I do that all the time.”
* * *
Brandon trudged through the snow, trying to match his aunt’s description to the blurry white landscape that lay all around him. Gravestones were strewn across the gentle slopes of the mountainside as far as the eye could see. Bea had mentioned a big pine tree, but the cemetery seemed to be full of trees as old and majestic as Mount Royal itself. Thick oaks, pale, arching poplars, maples that spread their lacy crowns wide over the tombstones below. Brittle morning sunshine bleached the snow, and wind tugged at his dishevelled hair. He hunched his shoulders and turned up the collar of his jacket.
Brandon had always thought Ottawa’s Beechwood Cemetery was a stunning resting place, with its dappled shade, terraced gardens and meandering paths. But it could not rival the location of the hundred-and-sixty-year-old Mount Royal Cemetery nestled on the northern slope of the mountain. The spectacular domes of the university and St. Joseph’s Oratory peeked over the distant trees, and the northern cityscape faded into the pale horizon beyond. Here the snow seemed whiter and the air crisper. Against the grandeur of the natural setting, even the mausoleums and obelisks of the wealthy old Montreal families looked humble.
His aunt had told him the section of the cemetery where generations of Longstreets had been laid to rest, and he trekked in the snow from grave to grave, studying the names with detached bemusement. These were his relatives. Why had he never heard of them, met them, or heard the stories of their lives? His mother had never even brought him to visit his father’s grave. When he’d thought about it, which was rare, he’d assumed she was trying to spare him the stark reminder of his father’s absence. Or trying to spare herself. Now he wondered just how false her devotion and grief had been. Had she instead been trying to blot the man out of her mind and erase all reminders of his betrayal?
Brandon found himself on unfamiliar, shifting ground, the illusions of his childhood destroyed amid questions about who his mother and father really were. After leaving Meredith’s grandmother the day before, he’d spent the day poring over the old newspaper files he’d taken from his mother’s office and surfing the internet in vain for further details. Bea had been no help, suddenly changing her tune after his visit to Cyril and suggesting that he should let the past rest.
“Your father was fundamentally a good man, with more ideals and ethics than the rest of the Longstreet men put together, and your mother was right to preserve that in your mind. Not his one weakness. Sexual appetite can bring down great men, but it shouldn’t be the only yardstick by which they are judged.”
She must have seen the dismissal on his face, for she pressed further. “You were the centre of your mother’s world after he died. Everything she said, every choice she made, including leaving Montreal, was for your wellbeing. I don’t think it hurt you to have an idealized father to live up to.”
She made him feel childish and petty, like a small boy who’d believed in Superman and now pouted at the truth as if he’d been personally betrayed. He wanted to tell her this was not about his father’s sexual appetite nor even his mother’s lies, but about the corrosive effect of those secrets thirty years later. A woman was dead, and Meredith had disappeared.
But the truth was, Bea was partly right. Tramping through the graveyard in search of his father’s tomb, he did feel like a small child, not sure why he’d come and perilously close to weeping at the potent symbolism of the act.
He pulled himself back to reason with a sharp shake of his head. The grave must be farther over, set apart from the older Longstreets who had lived out the full measure of their lives. There was a tall pine just up the slope, its boughs bent almost to the ground with the weight of snow. The vague indentations of a path wove towards it through the sparkling white quilt crisscrossed with the prints of rabbits and squirrels foraging for food.
He veered towards the pine, braced against the wind that whistled up the mountain. The cold snow seeped into his thin leather boots. He had less than an hour before his meeting with the reporter, whom he’d managed to track down on the internet the night before. Cameron Hatfield had revealed little over the phone and had grilled him with numerous questions about who he was and what exactly he wanted to know, but he’d finally agreed to meet with Brandon. Noon for brunch—on Brandon’s tab—was the earliest he was willing to face the world. Hatfield warned him it would be a waste of his time. He recalled the case only in the vaguest detail, because there hadn’t been much to it.
As Brandon trudged closer, he could make out a black shape through the thick branches. Closer, a curious splash of colour. Red. He quickened his pace as the black shape became a tombstone nestled in the hollow beneath the tree. Protected from the snowfall, its polished granite was almost completely bare. He ducked under the pine bough and stepped close enough to read the inscription.
Harvey Kent Longstreet
1938-1978
A beautiful soul, taken before his time
His brief moment of triumph faded as the scene registered. Propped against the tombstone and partially covered by a light mantle of snow, was a bouquet of red roses. Fresh and crisp, as if they’d been placed only yesterday. Brandon frowned and glanced at the ground at the base of the grave, noting for the first time the delicate footprints half-filled with snow. Footprints came in under the bough, trampled around and then faded out again into the deeper snow of the open field. He bent closer to brush the snow from the petals, looking in vain for a card. Who still cared enough about his father to bring flowers thirty years after his death? Bea had not mentioned it. His mother? She hadn’t left Ottawa all week.
For one crazy, hopeful moment, he thought of Meredith.