Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle (93 page)

 R
ouleau gathered the team in the meeting room before lunch.

“Looks like we can wrap up the investigation into the Munroe death,” Chalmers said, leaning back in his chair. “I spoke with the prosecutor this morning and they’ll be pursuing involuntary manslaughter with provocation. She admits to killing her husband, but he’d broken into her house and was making off with the kid. She won’t be doing any time, is my guess.”

“Della Munroe told us that she was hanging up a mirror and left the hammer on the floor. Did that check out?” Kala asked.

“It did.” Chalmers held up a photo. “The wrapping for the new mirror was in the recycle bin.” He looked at her, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “Anything else?”

She met his eyes without smiling. “Yeah. Had the Munroes corresponded that day?”

“Nothing shows up in the phone or computer records.” Woodhouse interrupted their staring contest. “We’ve had someone checking all morning. Della said she’d locked the door and he had a key, but she’d also put the chain lock on. When the chain stopped him from getting in, he broke the glass and reached in to undo it.” He held up a photo of the broken window on the kitchen door before handing around the crime scene photos, adding, “Everything Della Munroe told us is checking out.”

“On the other hand, she wasn’t actually being physically threatened,” said Gundersund. “The force she used was excessive. Anyone who takes a hammer to somebody’s head has to be aware of the damage they can do.”

“He’d ignored the restraining order and broken into their house. He was in the act of taking their son away. I’d say he was threatening her in other ways. Mental abuse can be more powerful than physical over time,” Kala said. Her eyes had shifted to Gundersund’s. He held her gaze.

Rouleau waited a few seconds before he broke the impasse. “It won’t be up to us to argue her case, for or against. I want Chalmers and Woodhouse to finish up the investigation on this one. Stonechild, you can continue working with Gundersund on the Leah Sampson murder today. Still no solid leads or suspects, so you’ll have to dig deeper into her life and the people she dealt with.”

“Yes, sir,” Kala said.

Gundersund looked at her. “Let’s grab some lunch and go over the reports. We can plan our interview schedule.”

“Perfect,” Kala said. Her jaw jutted out dangerously. She looked at Rouleau. “Anything else?”

“I’m taking an hour to meet with a real estate agent to check out a house. I’ll be on my Blackberry if you need to reach me.”

“Whereabouts?” asked Gundersund.

“Along the waterfront to the west of downtown.”

“Nice area.”

“It’s not too far from Dad’s, the only reason I’m giving it a look.”

Rouleau leaned against the hood of his car and checked his watch. He’d give Laney Masterson five more minutes before driving downtown to pick up some lunch. He’d made initial contact with the real estate office by leaving a voicemail, but hadn’t expected her to leap into action so soon. He wasn’t even sure if it was the right time to leave his father alone. However, it would take a few months to finalize a sale and move in, so no harm getting the ball rolling.

He looked over at the house Laney had picked to show him. He’d specified a two-bedroom house, preferably a bungalow. This three-storey home wasn’t even close to what he’d had in mind. The waste of his time irritated him. Her lateness made him doubly impatient, but he wanted to meet her if only to set her on the right track.

The sun beat down like a heat lamp and sweat trickled down his back, making his shirt cling uncomfortably. Grey clouds had gathered on the distant skyline but as of yet offered no relief. Rouleau worried that his shaved head would burn if he didn’t soon get out of the sun and looked around for some shade. A few oak trees towered above the house in the backyard, but none in the front. He debated heading to the neighbour’s yard where a couple of pine trees shaded the driveway. Before he roused himself to walk that far, a car engine sounded behind him. He turned to see a silver Nissan barrelling toward him at a speed that should have earned the driver a ticket and a few demerit points off their licence. They wheeled into an empty parking spot a few spaces down and the engine died. Rouleau squinted and made out a woman’s ghostly face behind the sunlight reflecting off the front windshield.

The driver door was immediately flung open and a tall woman stepped out of the car. He was struck by how well put together she was, elegantly turned out in a white suit and red high heels with her auburn hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. The bones in her face were sharp and angular and her eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses. He could see enough to know that she was staring at him as she walked toward him. She held out a hand and he encircled her slender fingers with his own. Her grip was firm. In her forties, she had the body and movements of a much younger woman.

“Mr. Rouleau, so pleased to meet you,” she said. Her voice was low and pleasing to his ear. “Have you had a chance to look around?” She waved a hand in a sweep. A diamond bracelet sparkled on her wrist.

“I decided to wait for you.”

She flashed a quick smile as if acknowledging the implied rebuke, but didn’t comment on her late arrival. She added brusque, business-like “Good. Then let’s get started.”

They walked up the sidewalk toward the front door. A white verandah wrapped around the front and side of the house.

“I know this is bigger than what you asked for in your voicemail, but the price is within your budget and the house is in excellent shape. The yard is well maintained and there are lovely trees in the backyard. I believe you’ll enjoy living in this neighbourhood, that is, if you decide to buy.”

She used a key to open the front door and they stepped inside. The front hall was narrow and cool, painted a creamy lilac. The only light came from an oval window near the ceiling.

She took her time showing him the downstairs — a large living room with a wood fireplace, small bedroom and bathroom, large kitchen with walk-in pantry, and formal dining room off the family room — and he let her talk about the updates and redone birch floors without interrupting. He wondered if the look of genuine appreciation on her face was feigned or real when she ran her fingers over the granite countertops and the oak mantle over the fireplace. She had all the jargon down.

Rouleau stopped her as she started up the winding stairs to the second floor. “No point going any farther,” he said with unexpected regret. “It’s a lovely home but isn’t what I’m after. I’ve no desire to waste your time.”

She turned her feet resting on different steps, and frowned down at him. The confident glow in her lovely face had disappeared. She studied him for the first time as if she’d just realized he wasn’t on board with her program. “Are you sure? This is the area of town you asked to see, but there isn’t much available in your price range.” She paused as if she wasn’t used to such stupidity in her clients.

“It’s too much house. I need something smaller. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. I’m the one who brought you here.” She retraced her steps and brushed past him, her high heels clicking on the hardwood as she crossed the hall and disappeared into the living room. Her floral scent lingered. A moment later, she emerged with her purse and folder. “I’ll keep looking for you,” she said, her eyes momentarily apologetic. She started toward the front door.

“No rush yet, but let me know if something comes up,” Rouleau said, quickly stepping past her. His hand found the door knob before her and he held the door open.

They descended the front steps and walked toward his car. He looked up. The western clouds had scudded in quickly and he felt a dampness in the air that hadn’t been there when they’d entered the house. Kingston weather could change on a dime.

“How do you know Heath?” he asked, stopping at the end of the walkway.

Laney turned and faced him. Her eyes clouded over. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“No, I suppose not.” Her lips drooped in a scowl. She resumed walking toward her car, aiming her key fob at the passenger door. “Let’s just say that we have a history together.”

“I really didn’t mean to pry,” Rouleau said. He wished he’d never broached the subject. He felt like he’d stepped into something awkward and silently cursed Heath for not preparing him.

“It’s okay. Had is the operative word.” She turned and smiled for the first time, giving him a glimpse of what lay within. He noticed the crinkles around her blue-grey eyes. Under a coating of makeup, her face was tanned bronze from the sun. He pictured her stretched out in a lawn chair on a cruise ship with a drink in her manicured hand.

Rouleau nodded. “Well, let me know when you find something else. I should be able to meet you if given enough notice.”

“I promise you something more suitable next time. Now that we’ve met, I have a better idea of what will please you.” She smiled again, full wattage, before ducking her head to slide into her front seat.

Rouleau watched her car pull a u-turn and zip away from him down the street. She just barely stopped at the stop sign before whipping left and disappearing from view. He shook his head and got into his car to head back to the station. Laney Masterson looked to be a woman used to the privileged life where rules didn’t apply to her. He turned the key in the ignition and wondered what had gone on between her and Heath. A wise man would turn and run the other way rather than get involved with either one of them. Rouleau glanced one more time at the house he’d never own, then cursed himself for being a fool because he was already looking forward to the next time Laney Masterson called. If that wasn’t folly, he didn’t know what was.

Chapter Seventeen

 T
he stove clock buzzer gave its long, piercing signal. Gail Pankhurst jumped up from her chair, grabbed her rooster-shaped oven mitts, and pulled open the oven door. She slid out a pan and pushed on the nearest muffin with her index finger. Satisfied that they were ready, she grabbed the two tins and dumped the carrot muffins onto trivets she’d already arranged on the counter. While the muffins cooled, she changed into purple shorts, slightly tighter than she’d have liked, and an orange tank top that showed off her garden of tats. No use having them if nobody could see them.

She scrawled a note for her roommate Elaine on the back of an envelope, promising to clean up the mess upon her return. She added that she was on an errand of mercy that couldn’t wait. Elaine would get herself into a snit over the mess anyhow, Gail knew, but she’d deal with it later.

She’d wearied of Elaine’s cold shoulder and snide jabs. The animosity had all started when she’d announced to Elaine that she was gay and open to experimentation, probably not her best move in hindsight. Soon afterwards, they’d agreed that this would be the last year they roomed together. The main battle was yet to be fought, however. Gail would give up the Court Street apartment over her own dead body. Elaine had tried to claim it, as if she’d forgotten who found the apartment in the first place. So much for high school friendship surviving university. Gail filed their relationship into her mental folder on human behaviour under the dysfunctional category. She’d go over their broken friendship later when it didn’t sting quite so much. For now, it took all her energy to act like she was all for the split. She would not buckle and beg Elaine to stay. She would not.

Gail arranged the muffins in a tin that she placed into her knapsack. She searched under her bed for her sandals, then gathered the clothes that were scattered across the floor into one big heap. She tossed the lot onto her bed and kicked a stray bra into the corner. The clothes could damn well wait too.

She locked the apartment door and clumped down the stairs, taking the back exit into the yard where she retrieved her bike from the shed. Well, Elaine’s bike really, but she never used it. Gail smiled and snapped her fingers, wiggling her hips before putting on her bike helmet. “You got it going on, sister,” she said. A little self-mockery helped keep the blues away.

Exiting the driveway, she turned north on Barrie Street. The route would take her past Leah Sampson’s apartment, but she felt ready to face the scene of the crime. She’d been more upset by the idea of a murder than Leah’s death, although images of Leah kept coming back and disturbing her sleep. It was just the normal part of grieving, she told herself. Her job was to remain objective.

The gathering clouds were worrisome, but it was still a hot day with a cooker sun. Her hair would be plastered in sweat under her helmet by the time she reached her destination. As if she needed anything else to make her look less of a winner. She’d accepted that she’d never be a beauty and gone with the eccentric look, but she admitted to moments of model envy. “Ah screw it,” she said out loud. She rubbed her Popeye tat, the greatest cartoon character of all time. “I y’am what I y’am.” She hoisted her knapsack onto her back and swung a leg over the bike seat, giving herself a running start with her other foot.

She paused at the corner of Johnson and Barrie and looked a block to her right at the yellow tape surrounding the house where Leah had met her end. Her eyes misted over for a moment but she blinked away the tears.
Stupid cow
. She meant herself, but Leah deserved the moniker too. She must have done something totally asinine to get herself killed. A woman full of secrets and way too attracted to the male species. Her wandering eye had likely gotten her killed.

Gail had been keeping a file on Leah and Wolf for months. She put them under her “romance at work” category, detailing their relationship and then the breakup. She’d particularly liked that they grew up down the street from each other in the same town but didn’t find love until they left Brockville. She’d sensed trouble several weeks before it happened. Not on Wolf’s side; strictly on Leah’s. Leah had always been evasive, disappearing for so called appointments.
Assignations
more like, and if Juicy was right, assignations with a married man.