After I left Sheila, I walked back to the car and took photos of the relevant provisions of the shelter’s lease agreement, forwarding them to my solicitor in London for an assessment. Then I put a call in to Patrick’s inspector and made arrangements for him to go over the Campbell Street property with a fine-tooth comb. With the practical matters attended to, I set off for Brownsfield Crescent and the Ross residence. Sheila had given me the address, but I double-checked just to be sure. The house was a striking Victorian with a gated front garden and off-street parking that backed onto the Brownsfield Links. Duncan Ross obviously did all right for himself. I walked past a black Vauxhall sedan parked in the driveway and rang at the front door, feeling a little nervous.
The door was opened by a well-starched Latina woman in a gray maid’s uniform. “May I help you?” she asked in a carefully practiced modulation.
“I’m looking for Mr. or Mrs. Ross,” I said. “I’m from the Shepherd’s Rest.”
“Ah, childminder,” she said.
“No, no,” I corrected. “I’m here to pick up some donation items from Mrs. Ross.”
The woman inclined her head, opened the door, and gestured to a room off the main hall. “Please wait in here and I will see if someone is available.”
The Victorian exterior belayed the modernity of the interior decoration. This room wasn’t the only thing chez Ross that wasn’t what it seemed from the outside. A gas fireplace insert was framed by a white marble surround and the walls were painted a soft shade of gray. The carpet was a darker shade of gray and two interestingly shaped, but brutally uncomfortable-looking, red couches provided the only break in the unremitting grayness of the room. The stainless-steel coffee table had a stack of architecture and garden magazines artfully fanned out across the fingerprint-free surface. No books, no photographs, no personal mementos. The room had all the warmth of a doctor’s waiting room.
I turned as the door opened and Duncan Ross entered, looking puzzled. “Ms. Logan, this is a surprise.”
And not a pleasant one from the look on his face.
“What can I do for you?”
“I actually came to see your wife about some things she had to donate to the shelter.” I smiled ever so slightly, watching for Ross’s response.
“Maria must have misunderstood,” he replied, backing toward the door as if eager to escape from my presence.
“Perhaps I was the one who didn’t make myself clear,” I offered. “I’m surprised to catch you at home, I would’ve thought you’d be at work.”
Ross scowled. “I should be, but the police were in and out this morning, interviewing everyone that so much as looked at that wretched girl from the shelter.”
“You mean Jenny, I presume.”
“Was that her name? Whole lot of flap about nothing, if you ask me. Silly girl did herself in. The police have no right coming here and pestering me and my family.”
“Would you say Jenny was distressed when she left?”
“Who wasn’t, given all the hysteria going on around here?”
Ross seemed to be harboring a great deal of anger and nervous energy. He walked to the bar in the corner, poured himself a whisky, and downed it without even glancing my way.
“Hysteria?” I prompted.
“That bloody wife of mine decided to put on a vocal display simply because I was in the house alone with this young woman for a moment or two. I’d just returned, for God’s sake, and was preparing to take her home.”
“I understand you use the girls from the shelter as childminders on a regular basis,” I observed.
“What if we do? They’re happy enough to take my money.”
“Are they?”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply,” Ross said through clenched teeth. “But don’t pay any attention to the lies those women at the shelter spread. They’re trigger-happy. One look from a man and they’re sure they’re under attack. It’s ludicrous. A man in my position has no use for women like that.”
I’d be willing to bet Duncan Ross had some use for them, but not the kind he would care to discuss in public. Sadly his words, as contrived as they were, would likely carry more weight than those of the shelter’s residents.
“Now, you’ll have to excuse me,” Ross said, heading for the door. “I have important business to attend to.”
He swept out and within two minutes, the lady of the house arrived wearing an immaculately tailored white slacks suit with black wedge heels that were easily five inches high. Given the glazed look in her blue eyes, it was amazing that she was still vertical. She approached me with measured steps, looking me up and down. Was she wondering if I was one of her husband’s playthings? The thought made me angry, but I swallowed hard and said, “Mrs. Ross, I’m Abigail Logan. I’ve just joined the board at the Shepherd’s Rest along with your husband. I was on my way home and agreed to stop by and collect some donations you had. Save you the trip.”
Her eyes flickered, registering that I was someone as opposed to no one. Not a significant someone in her mind, but someone worthy of acknowledgment at least.
“Lila Ross,” she said extending a limp-wristed hand. She opened a carved wooden box on the table next to her and retrieved a cigarette. She lit it before walking back to the door and calling out, “Maria, bring those things down from my dressing room. Not the dry cleaning, mind, but the pile of old stuff on the floor.” She turned back to me and said, “Can I get you a drink?”
“No thanks, I’m fine. I have a long drive ahead of me.”
Lila shrugged and poured herself a large gin from the sideboard and added a token splash of Slimline tonic. Not enough to dilute the drink, just enough to make the beverage arguably a cocktail and not straight alcohol. She collapsed on the couch, cradling her drink, and waved vaguely at the settee across from her. I perched on the edge and said, “We really appreciate the donation. It’s a tremendous help. You and your husband do so much to support the residents at the shelter.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Lila snorted softly. “Duncan’s always keen to be helpful.”
Clearly not a warm relationship. “You had one of the girls from the Rest over to mind your kids on Monday night.” Lila ignored the remark. “Jenny,” I prompted. “Did you know her at all?”
“Me? Don’t be daft. I don’t know any of those women.”
I unclenched my jaw slowly. “Those women?” I prompted.
Lila studied her blood-red pinkie nail, intently looking for some divot in the sleek perfection. “Some women just court trouble and have no idea how to get themselves out of the mud once they fall in.” She trailed off, turning back to take a long drag on the cigarette in her other hand.
“They seem to be admirably brave women from where I’m sitting, but then again, I’ve only just started to work with the Rest. All this is new to me. I just wanted to find out a bit more about Jenny. I didn’t get the chance to really get to know her before she died.”
Lila looked me in the eye for a long moment, as if trying to assess where I was going with this. I noticed that the artfully placed pink smudges on her cheeks suddenly stood out in greater relief against her pale skin. “It was suicide from what I understand,” she remarked.
“Really? I understood the police hadn’t committed yet. How did she seem to you when you last saw her?”
Lila rolled her eyes. “I don’t know the woman. How the hell would I know how she was?” She took another drink from her glass that was now being waved around with abandon. “Besides, she was leaving when I arrived home. We barely crossed paths.”
“You and your husband weren’t out together?” I said in mock surprise.
She scowled, giving me a disdainful look. “Not if we can help it.”
“And he didn’t say anything to you about Jenny?”
“Ms. Logan, my husband and I lead very separate lives. I don’t speak to him any more than I have to.” Lila took two large swallows from her glass.
“Do you ever worry about your husband being alone here with these young women?” I prodded.
“These women are childminders. By definition they are here because we are not. I don’t know what you are trying to suggest, but I would think very carefully if I were you before going down that path.” Lila rose from the settee unsteadily and moved across the room to yell out the door. “Maria, where the hell are those donations?”
I heard a voice from down the hall say, “I left them on the bench in the foyer.”
“Well, get in here and help Ms. Logan to her car. She’s leaving now.”
On that dismissive note I rose and followed Lila out into the hall. She handed me off to Maria with a curt goodbye before turning and heading back upstairs.
That interview had gone south quickly. Clearly, Duncan Ross’s exploits were a sore subject on the home front.
Maria grabbed half the pile of clothing that was spilling onto the marble floor. I grabbed the other half and we struggled our way through the front door, trailing layers of garish tulle, sequins, and leather behind us. We’d probably do better to sell the clothing and use the money to purchase some useful items for the shelter.
Maria helped to stuff all the finery into Hope’s tiny trunk and backseat.
“Thanks for the hand,” I said with a smile. “That’s a lot of stuff.”
“Plenty more where that came from,” Maria murmured.
“I’ll bet. I suppose we can always sell them on eBay and make use of the cash.”
Maria continued trying to contain the overflowing fabrics to avoid trapping them in the car door.
“Were you here on Monday night?” I asked.
Maria shot a quick glance back at the house and continued to slowly fold a particularly slippery satin gown. “I told the police. Mr. Ross gave me the night off. He usually does when they have a sitter in. I went to the pictures.”
“What time did you get back?”
“Nine thirty or so.”
“Was Mr. Ross home?”
“No, I saw him come in around ten o’clock.”
“And Jenny, the sitter, did she seem alright when he came back?
“I don’t know. I saw Mr. Ross come home from over there.” Maria nodded in the direction of a wooden bench adjacent to the entrance to the park about twenty feet away. “I’m not allowed to come back to the house when one of the girls are there unless the porch light is on.”
Convenient arrangement, not to mention creepy. “And the porch light wasn’t on when you came back?”
Maria shook her head.
“So you have to just sit here and wait?” I tried my best to keep the anger from my voice. “Did you tell the police about this arrangement?”
Maria took a step toward the house. “I must go back.”
I reached out to touch her arm. “Just one more quick question, please. What time did Mr. Ross leave to drive Jenny home?”
“He didn’t. Mrs. Ross drove her home.”
“Mrs. Ross?”
“She got home about twenty minutes after Mr. Ross. She’s usually out much later. Next thing I knew the porch light went on, so I hurried in. It was starting to rain.”
“What was going on when you came into the house?”
“I’ve talked too much already. Mrs. Ross is probably watching.” Maria turned and fled across the street and back into the gated yard.
I would love to have been a fly on the wall for the conversation that ensued when Lila Ross returned home the other night. Did she blame her husband for the scene that greeted her? Or did she blame Jenny? Based on what I’d just heard, I’d bet she put the blame on the victim. So why would she bother to take one of “those women” home and not just stuff her in a taxi and be rid of her?
I climbed into Hope and headed back to Balfour. No one wanted to talk about what happened to Jenny at the end of the night. Maybe her blood work would give us some clues. As I headed out of town on the motorway, I found Hope leading me in the direction of Stirling; it was time to call in a favor.
In less than half an hour I was sitting on a bench in front of Stirling’s lone organic bakery, warming my hands around a cup of tea, and watching Detective Inspector Ian Michaelson walking down the street toward me. He strode with purpose, head held high, eyes darting from side to side taking in the details of his surroundings as he passed. Steely, tenacious, scrupulous. He was a first-class policeman and over the past year, during the course of several unanticipated entanglements, we’d become friends.
As he drew even, he gave me a slight smile and said, “I was hoping this was merely a social call, but from the look on your face I’d say it’s something more.”
“Good to see you, too,” I replied, following him through the door of the bakery. Michaelson ordered a coffee and we moved along the counter to wait for his drink. “How’s Grace?” I asked, inquiring after his teenage daughter.
“She has a new friend,” he replied with a grimace.
“I take it this is a friend of the male persuasion?”
“A spotty kid who thinks he’s God’s gift to football,” growled Michaelson, dumping six packets of sugar into his coffee and stirring vigorously.
“He must be pretty keen if he’s willing to face all this down,” I said, gesturing to Michaelson’s six-foot frame and his sturdy, muscular arms. “Not to mention the collective Stirling police force that will be keeping an eye out for one Grace Michaelson.”
“Keen and stupid,” Michaelson muttered.
“Not that stupid if he’s taken to your Gracie,” I pointed out. “I only dimly remember being fourteen, but for what it’s worth I think you’ll find this is just a flash in the pan. Can’t breathe without him today, banished tomorrow.”
Michaelson picked up his coffee and followed me to a small table in the rear of the shop. “I hope so. It’s times like this I really miss having her mother around. She’d handle this better than I do.”
I hesitated slightly, not knowing how to proceed. There were two reasons I’d contacted Michaelson. I wanted to find out what the blood work on Jenny Woodyard revealed once it was ready, and I was hoping he’d be willing to talk a little about his wife. I’d heard that she was hospitalized and dealing with depression, but it was a sensitive subject and one that we’d never discussed. Being around the ladies at the shelter, depression was a subject I suddenly wanted to know more about, and this was as good an opening as I was likely to get. “Does Grace ever see her mother?” I asked.
“Occasionally, but it’s pretty stressful for all of us. Now, what’s going on with you?” Michaelson skittered away from the topic again. “How’s Grant feeling?”
Michaelson had been the investigating officer when Grant was injured, and the two knew each other quite well. “Recovery’s been longer than we anticipated,” I admitted. “And of course he’s chaffing at the bit to get back to work, but some of the symptoms haven’t fully resolved themselves.”
“Sorry to hear that. And are you keeping out of trouble?”
“Been trying to focus on the Bennett Logan Memorial Trust these past few weeks. We’ve just started working with a women’s shelter in Edinburgh called the Shepherd’s Rest. Nice group of women, but they’ve had a spot of trouble recently.”
Michaelson rolled his eyes. “Here it comes.”
“Don’t be such a cynic.” I paused, looking for a more subtle approach, but gave up quickly. “One of the young women who’s a guest at the shelter was found dead in her room yesterday morning. The police seem keen to label it suicide.”
Michaelson lifted his hands in the air and sat back from the table. “Edinburgh is way outside my jurisdiction.”
“I know, I know. I was just hoping for a bit of, well, professional insight. She’d been struggling with depression and anxiety, according to some of the other girls. Not surprising under the circumstances.”
“What was she taking?” Michaelson asked automatically.
“Prozac.”
“That’s the standard. Doesn’t mix well with alcohol. Was she drinking heavily?”
“Define heavily. She’d been drinking, but I don’t know how much. The point is the police maintain she’s a classic suicide risk. The folks at the shelter have tried telling the police they don’t believe she killed herself, but given that Jenny was a victim of recent abuse and taking Prozac, they aren’t getting much traction. I’m afraid the police are just looking for an easy answer. An overdose, accidental or intentional, fits the bill. I just thought that someone with a better understanding of the issues faced by victims of depression might have a different take on this,” I finished tentatively.
Michaelson stared into his now empty coffee cup, spinning it round between his hands. “Depression and its kin are misunderstood by most people who aren’t directly affected, but this case is not in my jurisdiction. I can’t get involved.”
“All I wanted was a quick look at the toxicology report they did on Jenny.”
Michaelson’s eyebrow arched. “That’s all? I can’t just hand over police evidence, Logan.”
“But you could make an excuse to see the report and let me know if there is anything odd.”
“Do your friends at the shelter know you are sticking your nose into this?”
I nodded. “They specifically asked for my help and so did Reverend Craig.”
Michaelson sat for a few moments, peeling the sleeve off his coffee cup in strips. “I have a friend at the regional lab who owes me a favor,” he said finally. “I’ll see if she’ll talk to me, but I make no promises.”
“Thanks. I appreciate you trying. Jenny seemed like a young woman who was starting fresh, finally getting her life back together. I just can’t believe she’d want to end it now.” I watched a shadow pass over Michaelson’s face.
“Depression is always there, lurking under the surface no matter how much you medicate. One day everything is fine; the next you can watch the person you love drowning under a wave of despair.”
I waited patiently. I knew this was tough and I didn’t want to press Michaelson farther than he was willing to go. “Depression can be triggered by any number of things. For my wife, Barbara, it was childbirth. After Gracie was born she fell into a deep depression. At first the doctors insisted it was just a touch of postpartum depression, but when she tried to harm the baby and then herself, they finally acknowledged that it was something more significant.” Michaelson looked off into the distance and I continued to wait. “That started a long trail of medication and therapy and more medications. It’s a painful thing to admit, but sometimes there is no cure. The best you can hope is to manage the symptoms.”
I reached across and quickly gave Michaelson’s forearm a squeeze. I knew he’d hate any overt expressions of sympathy, but the gesture was instinctive. I was trying, but I could only dimly understand the pain he was going through. “If someone was taking their meds and managing the symptoms of anxiety or depression, would they be able to function in a normal work environment?”
“Oftentimes yes. Depends how bad the symptoms are and how regularly you take your meds.”
“But from what you are saying, it sounds like even if you are coping you can still fall off the deep end. For someone who’d been abused, would sexual harassment or assault be the kind of trigger that could cause all of those emotions to bubble to the surface?”
“Quite possibly. Even for someone not suffering from anxiety or depression, that kind of behavior can destroy a person’s confidence and sense of self. Do you have evidence that this has been going on?”
“Sadly, yes. One of the board members, Duncan Ross, has been using the shelter as his own personal childminding agency. Unfortunately, when he gets home and the kiddies are in bed, he feels he has the right to demand additional services from the girls.”
“And you’ve got this information from multiple sources?”
“Yes.”
Michaelson shook his head. “You’ve been busy already. Anyone willing to press charges?”
“Not so far, but Jenny was at his house that night.” I leaned forward, dropping my voice slightly. “If I can establish that something happened in the house that night that ultimately resulted in her death—”
“That’s a tall order,” Michaelson interrupted, “and more important, not your job.”
I ignored Michaelson’s admonition and plowed on with the theory forming in my head. “A sexual assault by Ross could’ve pushed her over the edge, but what if the Prozac Jenny took when she got home wasn’t the only drug she’d had that night?”
“You think Ross might have slipped her a mickey?”
“Wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Not a bad theory, but date rape drugs don’t stay in the system long at all. It’s one reason they’re abused so much. By the time the blood work was done there may not have been much of a trace at all. It could be almost impossible to prove.”
“Still worth looking, isn’t it?” I pressed.
“Yes,” Michaelson conceded reluctantly. “I’ll let you know what I find out, but the police in Edinburgh will get the same information and they will ask the questions that need to be asked, not you. Remember that.”
“Of course,” I replied, crossing my fingers in my lap.
Dragging into Edinburgh four mornings a week was starting to get old, but I kept reminding myself it was only for five more days and I was learning so much. My phone buzzed insistently as I sat in traffic on the A90 wondering for the millionth time why the roadwork barriers were needed when nothing seemed to be happening for miles around. Not one truck, not one safety vest. I answered the phone with a quick flick of the thumb on the steering wheel, expecting Patrick.
“Abi?” The disembodied voice echoed inside the car.
“Amanda?”
“Yes, I’m so sorry to disturb you. I know you’re heading to class, but I need help and I just didn’t know where else to turn.”
I could tell from the slight quaver in her voice that she was struggling to hold her emotions in check. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Sheila. She’s gone missing.”