Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (243 page)

“I have to get away from these four walls, Bob,” she’d said. “I’ve been staring at computers for so long, I’ve forgotten what a field call feels like. How am I supposed to get back on my feet if I don’t start somewhere?”

She could see him wavering, so she pushed. “I can just sit in the car and observe the neighbourhood, make calls while I wait for you.

It will hardly be different from the station but it will
feel
different.”

It wasn’t really a fair fight, for Bob Gibbs never could say no to her. Not when she faced him square on and looked up into his brown puppy-dog eyes. She said nothing more while they were driving out to the Kennedy house. She knew he was taking inventory of the neighbourhood and mentally preparing himself for the encounter with the distraught parents. The initial police notes had described them as a “good family”. From a police officer’s perspective that usually meant nothing more than gainful employment and a lack of criminal connections. It said nothing about whether the father drank or the wife beat the kids, as long as nothing had landed on their police database.

The neighbourhood wasn’t rich but had a certain charm if you liked the post-war
Leave it to Beaver
look—little houses peeking out beneath massive old trees, one-car driveways neatly carved by snowblowers, and handmade Christmas wreaths on the door. Despite being built in the 1950s, the homes were being snapped up by young couples eager to avoid cookie-cutter plastic houses and hour-long commutes from suburbia. Sue wouldn’t be caught dead living here. She wanted acres of land somewhere in the rugged Canadian shield west of the city. Hardwood forests, granite bluffs, a meadow for a horse, and lots of trails for the dogs to roam off-leash. She grinned at the image of shy, self-conscious Gibbsie and her lying in the meadow with the sun beating down on their naked bodies and not a prying eye for miles.

Would she ever be whole enough?

The Kennedy house came upon them unexpectedly, breaking into her daydreams. It was a red and white dollhouse sitting on a corner lot, surrounded by a trim cedar hedge. Cars crammed the single driveway and crowded the street against the snowbanks, making it difficult for Bob to squeeze by. Only once he’d parked up the block and had one foot out the door did she stop him.

“Bob, I can observe much better if I’m in there with you.”

“Impossible.” He didn’t look at her. “The inspector would have my head.”

“Only if you tell him.”

“Or the family does.”

“Why should they? They won’t think anything of it. Two detectives look better than one anyway. One to interview and one to take notes. Looks like we’re taking it seriously.”

“Sue, you know—”

“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse. You know how hard it is to deal with upset families, plan questions
and
take notes.”

She’d thought that would be incentive enough, but still he shook his head. She changed tactics. “Darling, I need to do this.

I need to feel normal again, start thinking like a police officer again. How am I ever going to recover…?” She grabbed his chin and turned his face to hers. “How am I ever going to be a hundred percent?”

That simple phrase proved the key. She suppressed a small smile of triumph as she followed him up the icy street, trying to disguise the slight drag of her left foot. The family would not want a cripple assigned to their daughter’s search.

The snow on the front walk had been trampled by dozens of boots and as soon as Bob rang the doorbell, the door was flung open. A look of expectation followed by surprise raced across the face of the man who opened it. The loud buzz of voices could be heard inside.

“Mr. Kennedy? I’m Detective Gibbs of the Ottawa Police.”

The man didn’t answer. His jaw dropped and he stepped back to yell into the house. “Reg, it’s the cops!”

A roly-poly sparkplug of a man rushed up. He had a crooked nose, curly silver hair and that Irish leprechaun face Sue had seen in dozens of small Ottawa Valley towns. Minus the jaunty grin and the twinkle in the eye. This man’s eyes were bloodshot, and his skin was bruised grey with fatigue and fear. Behind him came a dumpling of a woman with mousey hair all askew and the same hollow panic in her eyes. Others anxiously crowded into the tiny hall.

“There’s nothing new,” Bob said quickly, and their faces sagged. He lowered his voice. “Just a few questions. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

The Kennedys led them through the crowd to the tiny kitchen in the back, which was probably outfitted before Sue was born. Only the massive gas stove looked modern. Sue remembered from the file that Norah Kennedy was a housewife and Reginald was a chef by trade, although he was now a bartender at a pub on Merivale Road. It obviously didn’t pay well enough for them to replace the painted white cabinets and arborite counter.

Two women were hunched over the small counter, making sandwiches. Reg Kennedy asked the women to leave then invited the officers to sit in the homemade bench built under the window overlooking the backyard. The father squeezed in opposite them, but the wife seemed too jumpy. She fussed around, wiping sandwich crumbs from the counter. Reg tilted his head towards the crowd in the living room.

“We got a search on, everyone wants to help. We’ve lived here almost thirty years, and they all watched Meredith grow up. We’ve checked all her friends and the places she usually goes. Right now we’re checking along the route she would have walked from the bus to home. She could have slipped on the ice, and with the snow the last couple of days...” He broke off as if he couldn’t say it aloud.

Taking out her notebook, Sue waited dutifully while Bob took up the interview. He looked efficient and in control. No hint of the stutter that sandbagged him when he was nervous. “Any leads from her friends on the places she went? We need to track her latest movements. We know she called her friend Monday evening. Anyone see her yesterday?”

The father shook his head. “She didn’t go to work, didn’t call in sick. She never answered the emails and texts people sent her asking where she was. Jessica, her maid of honour, left her three messages on her cell and two texts saying ‘call me.’ No answer.” “Was the maid of honour concerned about something?”

“Not at first. Meredith had called her, upset, and they were supposed to meet. It wasn’t like Meredith not to show up.”

“Why was she upset? Did Jessica know?”

“It was probably about the bridesmaid who quit.”

“What happened?”

Reg grimaced. “My nephew’s wife. She’s always taking offence, and I think Meredith said something to upset her.”

“They don’t get along?”

“Caryn doesn’t really get along with anyone—”

Mrs. Kennedy looked up from her cleaning irritably. “Well, she’s going through a hard time, losing the baby, Reggie.”

Sue eyed the exchange, noting the spark in the wife’s eye and the guilt in Reg’s. Crises always brought out the cracks in even the best marriage. Bob ploughed ahead. “So Meredith was c-concerned this might interfere with the wedding?”

Reg glanced at his wife. “She did seem annoyed—”

Norah sighed. “She was fine. Caryn would have come around.

She just needed a few days to calm down.”

“Did she have any disagreements with anyone else?”

Both parents shook their heads simultaneously.

“Any former boyfriends who might cause trouble?”

At this, Reg and Norah exchanged uncertain glances before Norah answered. “She was engaged a few years ago, but they never saw eye to eye on things. Fought all the time. Meredith does have a temper. I think they were both glad to be out of it.”

Bob paused like he was looking for another thread to pick up.

“Any trouble with the current fiancé?” Sue blurted out impatiently. Beside her, Bob tensed, but he was too smart to say anything. “Were they fighting too?”

“Nothing the two of them couldn’t handle,” Reg said. “They really adored each other. You could see it in their eyes whenever they were together.” A look almost like longing crossed his face.

“Like they were made for each other. If ever two souls fit together perfectly...”

Norah grunted. “Perfect, right. Except for that holy terror of a mother.”

Sue raised an eyebrow. “Trouble with the in-laws?”

Reg flinched but said nothing. Doesn’t want to put his foot wrong again, Sue thought. Norah replied for him. “Mother-in-law. Meredith’s got her work cut out for her there, but if anyone’s a match for that woman, it’s Merry.”

Bob finally found his tongue. “The mother-in-law doesn’t approve?”

“Of Meredith?” Norah flushed. “That woman wouldn’t approve of anyone, but certainly not us.”

Nose up her ass? Sue wanted to say, but she’d already stuck her neck out far enough. The preliminary notes from MisPers said that Mrs. Longstreet was a well-connected lawyer. Bartenders who looked like they’d gone nine rounds with Joe Frazier wouldn’t fit around her formal dining table.

Bob was more diplomatic. “Different backgrounds?”

Reg bobbed his head knowingly. “It’s good the kids are going halfway around the world. Gives them a chance to find their own way.”

“What about the father-in-law?”

“Dead,” Reg said. “Years ago.”

“Violently,” Norah added. Sue thought she heard triumph in her voice. “That’s a deep, dark secret she never mentions.”

Sue perked up. There had been no mention of criminal links from the past. She jumped back in. “What happened?”

“No one knows, it was all hushed up.” Norah’s triumph was obvious now. Something to hold over the too-good-for-us Elena Longstreet. “It was back in Montreal. Harvey Longstreet was a law professor at McGill.
Her
law professor in fact before they got married. That’s all we know.”

“Probably murdered by a client who didn’t like the verdict,” Reg interjected.

“Or his legal bill. Brandon was only a baby at the time and grew up listening to what a great lawyer his father had been. But Meredith says his mother never told him a thing about how he died.”

Meredith’s room had the dishevelled, disorganized look of a temporary lodging. She had moved back there only a month earlier when her apartment lease had expired, and suitcases and boxes cluttered the floor. Decorated in frilly blues and yellows, the room had retained its little girl feel, but the stuffed animals on the shelf over the bed looked like they hadn’t been moved in years. The flowery duvet was flung back in a heap, and the sheets were rumpled as if the woman had leaped out of bed at seven a.m. and never given them a second thought. Jeans, a sweater and a bra were slung over the back of the desk chair, and socks and underwear spilled out of a suitcase on the floor. The desk was piled high with papers, and an unopened laptop perched precariously on top.

Six books teetered on the bedside table, splayed open half-read. This woman had six books on the go, Sue thought in awe as she wandered over for a peek. Multi-tasking or easily bored? Two were travel books on Ethiopia, another on family law, but one was a Mary Jane Maffini mystery. Sue warmed to the woman. Maffini’s light-hearted mysteries had lifted her own spirits many times during those awful months at the Rehab hospital, when doctors said she’d never walk again, let alone return to police work. When she was relearning to guide a spoon to her mouth.

One book, almost hidden at the bottom of the pile, piqued her curiosity.
The Quiet Revolution and Beyond: Quebec in the 1970’s
. A weird selection for a woman preparing for a teaching job in Africa. She picked it up and noted that it was splayed open to a chapter on McGill and the erosion of English higher education.

She turned to Norah and Reg, who were hovering in the doorway. “Any idea why she was reading about Quebec history?”

They shrugged like matching marionettes. “Maybe because of her immigration work with Haitians last year? She was helping families sponsor their relatives to come here after the quake. Lots of Haitians families settled in Montreal.” Reg paused, and a hint of a scowl crossed his face. “French connection, you know.”

“But Meredith reads everything,” Norah added. “Ever since she was a little girl. Always had one book or another with her, read on buses, walking down the street, even at the dinner table.” She waved her hand towards the IKEA bookshelf under the window, from which books stuck out every which way. No Nancy Drews, but Sue recognized two entire shelves of Hardy Boys. “I don’t even know where she got them half the time. The shelves kept filling up faster than I could give them to the rummage sale.”

“Our girl’s got a quick mind. You gotta keep it fed,” Reg countered. “She was always asking questions, and when she wanted an answer, she’d turn to a book.” He glanced at the laptop with a frown. “Or nowadays, a computer. Whenever she was home, she spent hours up here on that thing.”

“Too many hours,” Norah muttered her usual two cents.

Sue joined Bob, who had walked over to study the computer. Her gaze drifted over the desk, which was an innocent-looking clutter of travel print-outs, receipts, drafts of wedding invitations, seating plans, to-do lists. She scanned one of these for clues but nothing seemed unusual.
Order corsages, speak to E about
dessert? nut allergies, dye shoes.
A bride trying to keep track of the massive details of a wedding. Sue shuddered at the thought. Not hers. Barefoot on a beach somewhere.

Bob opened the laptop, and they all watched as the screen lit up with icons. Dozens of them. Meredith’s laptop was as cluttered as her desk and bedside table. Despite her months being chained to the computer at work, Sue didn’t like the things. She still blundered around causing crashes and error messages.

“I’d like our computer experts to take a look at this,” Bob said. “Is that all right?”

Reg nodded. “Brandon and I have looked at it, hoping maybe there would be clues, you know? She’s got thousands of emails— saves every one, I think— but we couldn’t see anything strange.

Except all the people emailing ‘where are you?’”

“Anyone you didn’t recognize?”

Reg hesitated. “Kids these days have so many friends, her mother and I can’t keep up. She’s got one of those Facebook accounts too, but it has a password. We tried every one we could think of, but no luck.”