Winter of Secrets (9 page)
Street prostitution wasn’t a problem in Trafalgar, but if it was the Mountainside Inn would be the sort of place that could be expected to rent rooms out by the hour.
Doctor Jack Wyatt-Yarmouth met Sergeant John Winters in the hotel lobby. What there was in the way of a lobby: a single couch decorated in cheap tartan fabric; an arm chair, more arm than chair. A teenaged desk clerk, chewing gum and not bothering to pretend he wasn’t staring at them.
“I apologize for disturbing you, Dr. Wyatt-Yarmouth,” Winters said, holding out his hand.
“Call me Jack, please.”
“Jack. Perhaps we could go somewhere a bit more private.” Winters threw a look toward the clerk. He didn’t even have the grace to look away.
Jack Wyatt-Yarmouth chuckled without humor. He was a small man, about five-seven and underweight. Beneath his round rimless glasses his dark eyes were empty and grief dragged at his thin cheeks. “Our room isn’t quite the Royal Suite at the Ritz, but it will do for lack of anything better. We could have stayed at the same B&B as my daughter and her friends, but my wife balked at the idea of taking the room because our son wasn’t needing it.” He swallowed and looked away. “Come on up.”
“Will your wife be joining us?” Winters asked.
Wyatt-Yarmouth punched the button to call the elevator, and, like a good servant, the doors opened immediately. They stepped inside and he pushed another button for the second floor. He waited for the doors to close before answering. “I suggested that an afternoon at the spa would do her some good.” He checked his watch. “She’s running late, probably poking around the stores to keep her mind occupied, but if she does arrive while we’re talking, I’d prefer we continue this conversation at a later time.”
Winters made no comment. He’d wait and see whether a conversation with Mrs. Wyatt-Yarmouth was required.
The elevator might have been obedient, but it was certainly slow. Time ticked away as it crawled toward the second floor, but eventually it did arrive. The hotel room was as badly decorated as the lobby, and the heating unit under the window groaned with the effort of emitting air that was far too warm. Jack gestured to his guest to take the single chair. He placed his leather jacket on the bed to the left, after neatly tucking the arms in, and sat on the second of the twin beds. He was dressed in expensive jeans and a good wool sweater in shades of brown and orange, pulled over a crisp white collar.
Winters took the chair.
“Sorry,” Wyatt-Yarmouth said with a shrug of bony shoulders, “but I can’t offer you a drink.”
“This isn’t a social call.”
“I guessed not. Perhaps you’ll tell me why a detective Sergeant wants to speak with me? I’m sure you’re aware that my wife and I met with another officer when we arrived. He took us to the hospital. We’re only still here,” he waved his hand, taking in the room, “in these inadequate accommodations while waiting for our son…our son’s body…to be released so we can take him back to Ontario. We met with the coroner when we arrived, and everything seemed to be in order.” Jack’s eyes were clear, but his voice broke.
Jason’s sister, Wendy Wyatt-Yarmouth, in the company of two of her friends, had identified not only her brother, but also the other body as that of his friend, Ewan Williams. Nevertheless, as soon as they arrived, delayed by the weather, Mr. and Mrs. Wyatt-Yarmouth insisted on seeing them both.
“I’m sorry about this, sir,” Winters said, “but there’s been a complication. What can you tell me about your son’s friend, Ewan Williams?”
“Ewan? He and Jason have been friends for a long time, since kindergarten. When they were young, Ewan was in and out of our house all the time. We have a swimming pool, and our house was pretty much the center of the neighborhood back in those days. Then the boys grew up, got drivers’ licenses and girlfriends and part-time jobs, lost interest in the pool, and didn’t need parents ferrying them about. They went away to university, so I can’t say we’ve seen much of Ewan for the last couple of years. Heard he went to McMaster University, in Hamilton, to study Archeology. Patricia, my wife, told me the police are having trouble contacting his parents. Can’t say I know them well. We met at school sports events or on occasions when Mrs. Williams came to collect the boy at our house, or visa versa. But we never socialized. Why are you asking?”
Winters ignored the question. “Once they grew up, became adults, Jason and Ewan, did they stay close?”
“Hard for a father to say. They went separate ways into university. Natural enough, I’d say. Come to think of it, it’s probably been a couple of years since I’ve seen Ewan. Not since the boys finished high school.” The man’s eyes opened wide. “For God’s sake! Look here, man, if you’re suggesting there was more than friendship between my son and his friend, any…unnatural relationship…you’re seriously mistaken. Jason’s had a long string of girlfriends, and I believe Ewan was almost legendary in his pursuit of what we men might call nookie.”
John Winters didn’t think he’d ever called it nookie. Interesting, however, that Jack Wyatt-Yarmouth used the phrase ‘unnatural relationship’ in response to something Winters hadn’t even been suggesting.
“Have you heard of Ewan Williams being in any trouble? Trouble in school, trouble with the police?”
“No.”
“Even rumors? Suspicions?”
“No. The boy was welcome in our home, which he would not have been if he was trouble, or if I’d had reason to suspect he had designs on my boy. I repeat, why are you asking these questions?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wyatt-Yarmouth, but the coroner will be keeping your son’s body for a few more days.”
The man jumped to his feet. “This is outrageous. We’ve already had to sit in this miserable hotel waiting for the autopsy, and we were told only yesterday that we could take him home. My wife made the arrangements this morning.”
“I realize this is a shock, but we do have our reasons.”
“And what reasons might those be?”
“Ewan Williams died sometime before the car Jason was driving went into the river.”
Wyatt-Yarmouth dropped back onto the bed. The springs squeaked in protest. “What on earth?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Your son had a dead man in his car.”
“Surely, you’re not implying that my son was responsible for Ewan’s death.”
“I’m implying nothing. I’m telling you the situation. What do you do for a living, Jack?”
“As you probably know, if you’re any sort of a detective, I am a full professor of Sociology at the University of Toronto. I happen to specialize in issues of policing in democratic societies and have written extensively on matters regarding the abuse of police powers. I’m also on the police board at home in Oakville.”
All of which means Jack-shit to me, Jack.
“Then you’ll be aware that the circumstances of your son’s death are now a matter for police investigation.”
Jack got to his feet once again. He almost visibly stretched in an attempt to make his short frame taller. He clenched his fists. “My son had nothing to do with the death of Ewan. It should be easy to explain, even for officers on a police department as small as yours. Jason wasn’t aware Ewan was dead, and was taking him to the hospital.” He cracked a smile, stiff and frozen. “My son was, I’ll thank you to remember, young and highly impulsive. He should have called 911, I won’t argue with that. But waiting for someone else to arrive and take charge wasn’t in Jason’s nature. I have no trouble believing he decided to act and get Ewan to the hospital by himself. Sadly, that decision cost my son his life.” Wyatt-Yarmouth rubbed at his face for a long time. When he took his hands away, his eyes were very red. “If you have no other questions, Sergeant, I’d like you to leave. My wife will be here shortly and I’d rather not see her disturbed any more than she is already.”
Winters stood. “I’m truly sorry for your loss. I wanted you to know how the situation stands. The pathologist will have to re-examine your son in light of what she found with Mr. Williams. I’m afraid it can’t be helped.”
Jack Wyatt-Yarmouth reached the door before John Winters, and pulled it open. “Thank you for your time,” he said, not at all meaning it. “I’m sure we won’t meet again before my family leaves your pleasant town.”
Winters paused half-way out the door and turned back to the room. Of all the police dramas on TV, most of which he couldn’t bear to watch, he’d liked
Colombo
the most. “One more thing. What was Jason studying at university?”
“Medicine. Like his mother, Jason intended to be a surgeon.”
***
All Kathy Carmine wanted in this life was to get out of Trafalgar. Her mother’s idea of travel was the monthly drive to Nelson to shop at Wal-Mart. Kathy had been to Vancouver once, on a Grade Ten school trip. She’d been awed by the size of the buildings, the panorama of the open ocean, the huge old trees in Stanley Park, the glittering stores, the glamorous people shopping in those stores. Ever since, she’d realized just how small, how confining, how
provincial
, Trafalgar, surrounded by mountains on all sides, was.
Kathy got average marks at school, and she wasn’t any kind of an athlete. She’d always had to help her mom run the B&B, cooking, cleaning, and so, unlike her friends, she’d never had the chance to make some money from an after school job.
She was in Grade Twelve, and had applied to Trafalgar College for a diploma in business in the fall—her mom’s idea, not hers. Mrs. Carmine had her eye on a small house across the street that she always said would be perfect for a cozy catered vacation home. Something very high end, she’d said, that she could charge an arm and a leg for. The home owners, the McNeils, were elderly, getting close to having to sell up and move into assisted living. Mr. McNeil had broken his hip in the spring, and Mrs. Carmine hovered like a vulture, encouraging Mrs. McNeil to consider moving to someplace that would be “easier for you to manage, dear.” To her consternation, Mr. McNeil recovered fairly well, and by mid-summer Mrs. McNeil was back caring for the fifty-year old perennial gardens that accentuated the old home’s appeal.
Kathy no longer wondered why, if her mom had enough money to consider buying another property, she wasn’t going to use it to send Kathy to University, as she wanted. But that subject wasn’t up for discussion. Kathy would get a diploma in business, help her mother run the B&B, and eventually take it over when the cozy catered vacation property became Mrs. Carmine’s to manage.
Kathy Carmine’s worst nightmare was that she would grow old without ever again seeing the world on the other side of these mountains.
And it would all be her mother’s fault.
She’d never had a real boyfriend, just a bit of awkward groping in someone’s father’s car or in the darkened movie theater. Kathy’d decided after the Grade Ten trip to Vancouver that getting involved with a Trafalgar boy would only tie her even tighter to the town.
She wasn’t a brave girl, Kathy, and she’d been waiting, hesitating, afraid to make her move.
It would have to be tonight.
The guests had come in as Kathy had been putting sheets into the washing machine. She’d abandoned the wash and grabbed the fresh flowers she’d left sitting in a couple of inches of water in the sink. She took the flowers up to the second-floor landing. The group had gathered in Wendy’s room, and the door was open.
“My parents expect us all to be there,” Wendy said, in that hideous nasal whine that she no doubt thought made her sound upper class.
“Look, Wendy, I’m sorry for your parents. I really am. But Jason was my friend too, and I’ll thank you to remember that. If I don’t want to go out to dinner, then I don’t. And so I won’t.”
“You think I want to go? And be forced to drag out every story about what a nice little boy Jason was, and what a nice young man he grew up to be, and what a nice big man he was intended to be, before being tragically struck down in his prime?”
“Wendy,” Sophie said, in her soft Québécoise accent.
“What the hell are you doing here anyway? You hadn’t even met my brother before last week.”
“Come on Wendy, Sophie’s only trying to help.”
“Like I care. Do what you want, Rob, okay? But don’t think I won’t remember that you wouldn’t come.”
“Listen to yourself, will you, Wendy? I’m not exactly breaking out in hives worrying that you’re going to cut me out of your will. I’d rather not go to dinner with your parents, that’s all.”
“Puh,” Sophie said in that absolutely French way. “Do as you want. I am going to prepare for dinner
en
famille
.
Alain
?”
“What?”
“Dinner,
Alain
. Are you coming to dress?”
“Yeah, right.”
Alan and Sophie came out of Wendy’s room. Kathy was standing in the landing, flowers in hand. She forced a smile. But, as usual, they were so wrapped up in each other they couldn’t spare a moment for anyone else. By the time they reached their room, Alan had his hand up Sophie’s shirt, reaching for the clips of her bra, and she was unfastening the zipper on her pants.
Dressing for dinner meant something different to Alan and Sophie than it did to most people.
“Don’t be in such a rush, Alan,” Wendy shouted. “The police want to talk to you guys. I’m calling them. You don’t want to be having a
nap
when they get here.”
Kathy dropped the flowers onto the table and ran downstairs. She’d heard what she needed to. They would all be going out for dinner tonight. Except for Rob.
She threw open the door leading to the family’s private area, and sprinted down the hall to her own room.
***
“Yes?” A woman answered the phone. Her voice thick and drowsy.
“I’m looking for Dave Evans.”
“Who wants to know?”
“Tell him it’s Sergeant Winters of the Trafalgar City Police.”
“Okay, hold on.”
“Sweetie,” she said through a big yawn. “You wanna take a call?”
A noise in the background.
“That Winters guy,” the woman said. “Didn’t he come around to ask Rosemary about her stolen bike last summer?” She giggled. “That was when we met.”