Tumbled Graves (15 page)

“What has gotten into you tonight?”

“Nothing. Will you read me a story?”

He looked up at her with the pleading look that always won her over. She waffled while she thought about the work waiting for her downstairs. If she didn't finish the revisions that the magazine editor had requested this morning for end of day, the article wouldn't make the publication deadline. “I can't, but after tonight I promise we'll spend some time together doing whatever you want. I promise.” She reached across him to turn out the bedside light.

“I want the light on.”

“You always sleep with it off.”

“I want it on.”

“Well, if you're sure.” She straightened and looked down at him. She could always come up and turn the lamp off when he was asleep. He was looking around the room as if searching for something.

“What is it?” she asked.

His eyes landed on her. “Will you stay for a bit?”

“Just for a bit. Close your eyes.”

“Okay.”

He reached over and held onto her hand. She couldn't remember the last time he'd done that. She watched him longer than she should, reluctant to break this unexpected physical bond with her son who was growing up much too fast for her liking. Soon, he'd be spending all his free time out of the house with his friends and moments like these would be only fond remembrances. His breathing started to slow and his hand relaxed in hers. She lifted his hand and gently laid it on top of the bedspread. As she did, his eyes popped open and he looked up at her with no recognition in his eyes.

“The man,” he said. He lifted an arm and pointed past her.

Startled, Catherine turned to look in the direction of his finger, but there was no man in the open doorway. She turned back and rested a hand on the blanket covering his chest. She could feel his heart beating through the covers.

“There's nobody there. Go to sleep now.” The panic in his eyes disturbed her and she was happy when he closed them again. He mumbled something else that she couldn't hear and she leaned closer.

“Violet,” he said. “I saw him.”

And then he rolled onto his side facing away from her. Catherine sat a moment longer trying to still her own racing heart. Sammy had been dreaming in the space between waking and sleeping. She knew that, but should she read any significance into his words? Would he remember in the morning?

When she was certain that he was fast asleep, she pushed herself from the bed and stood. She looked over at the lamp but decided it wouldn't hurt to leave the light burning. He might wake up and she didn't want him frightened. Violet's disappearance must be affecting him more than he'd let on.

She crossed to the window and reached up a hand to lower the blind. As she did, she looked out into the backyard. A wind had come up since supper and dark shadows swayed with the movement of the tree branches. She pressed her face against the glass and stared toward her garden at the back of the property. The shadows were thicker and she imagined someone crouched near the raspberry bushes. She squinted and looked again. Of course, nobody was there. Why would there be? Her gaze travelled back to the shed and the circle of brightness from the backdoor light before she stepped to the side and pulled down the blind with a snap.

Enough of this fanciful nonsense,
she told herself.
Those edits aren't going to correct themselves while you stand here scaring the bejesus out of yourself.
She started toward the stairs pulling a cigarette out of the pack crushed into the pocket of her sweater. She'd have just one to calm her nerves even though she'd promised herself not to smoke after supper. Just one cigarette wouldn't be a terrible crime. She'd smoke it before she settled into her computer and got to work — right after she double checked that all the doors and windows were locked up tight.

T
he
wind nearly tore the handle out of his hand as Rouleau pulled the truck door open. He managed to tuck himself inside the cab and yanked the door shut with both hands. He turned to look at Stonechild.

“Feels like a hurricane out there.”

“And the rain should start late in the afternoon. What do you say we just head south until we hit ocean?”

“Don't tempt me.”

She put the truck into gear and they were soon on the 401 heading toward Brockville. The truck was buffeted by the wind but not enough to make driving difficult. Low grey clouds scudded across their line of vision through the front windshield. The clouds were thicker on the eastern horizon, a sign of what was headed their way.

Stonechild pulled off at Brockville for coffee, after which they headed north on the 416 a little farther on. She was making good time, slightly over the speed limit but not enough to get pulled over. Their conversation was light and sporadic, each seemingly content to ease into the morning. When they passed the exit to North Grenville, Rouleau brought the conversation around to the investigation.

“What are your thoughts now on Ivo Delaney?”

Stonechild glanced at him before looking back at the road. “Not sure. He's unstable by all accounts. He might have cracked when he found out Adele had kept such a big secret from him.”

Rouleau couldn't tell from her face and flat voice whether or not she believed her own assessment. “I need you to take another stab at getting close to him. We haven't any real physical evidence, although maybe enough circumstantial to try to get prosecution to take it on.”

“Okay. Although he's denied everything so far. I suppose that's to be expected.”

“The majority of people who kill will deny it to high heaven. I can't recall too many who admit killing someone unless cornered by evidence, and even then …” He sipped coffee through the plastic lid. The coffee was too hot and bitter but a familiar part of highway travel. “Did you get a name for the waitress we're meeting?”

“She called herself
É
milie. It may or may not be her real name. She wanted to make sure nobody found out she was speaking to us.”

“Odd.”

Stonechild glanced at him again. “Doesn't fit with Delaney killing Adele and Violet. Why would this waitress go out on a limb to tell us anything?”

“I guess we'll soon find out.”

St. Laurent shopping centre was at the far end of the city. Traffic was heavier the closer they got to the city core. The highway passed over the downtown and Rouleau could see the famous canal off to the left where tourists came from all over the world to skate. Frances had dragged him out on more than one wintery evening. She'd skated the canal's length at least once every year.

“Penny for your thoughts, sir?” Stonechild had turned her head to look at him with her unfathomable black eyes.

“Just thinking how simple life feels in Kingston. Not near this much traffic.”

The St. Laurent Centre's concrete parking lot was filled with cars even this early in the morning. Stonechild drove slowly on the first level until she found a space. She backed in and turned off the engine.

She rested her hands on the steering wheel for a moment. “Let's hope
É
milie shows.”

“Did you get the feeling she might not?”

“She seemed skittish, although maybe it was just my poor French.” Stonechild turned her head sideways and smiled at him before opening her door.

They took the escalator to the third floor and located the A&W in the food court directly in front of the Hudson's Bay store. Predominantly mothers and kids were seated with drinks and fries in front of them, although not all of the tables were filled. Stonechild took a walk around the perimeter but reported to Rouleau that she didn't see the waitress.

“May as well get something to eat,” Rouleau said. “What would you like?”

“A coffee and a Teen Burger would be great.”

“Coming right up. Sit somewhere conspicuous.”

He placed their order and joined her at the table a few minutes later. Still no sign of the waitress. They ate quickly, as if they'd been starved and this was their last meal. Stonechild matched him bite for bite. He swallowed the last of his coffee before loading the tray with their wrappers. “I'll get rid of this.”

“I'll keep an eye out for her.”

He crossed over to the counter and dumped the trash into the can and then slid the tray onto the counter. He turned in time to see a platinum blond woman sit down in the seat across from Stonechild. She was wearing a barely buttoned green blouse with a silk scarf tied loosely around her neck. From his vantage point she looked late thirties. She was attractive but as he approached he could see that her expertly applied makeup helped hide flaws — lines around her mouth and pale blue eyes, and acne scars on her cheeks and forehead.

He sat down next to Stonechild and extended his hand. In French he said, “Hello, my name is Jacques Rouleau and I work with Officer Stonechild. How are you?”

Their conversation continued for a while in French while Stonechild sat, in the dark as to what was being said.

Rouleau turned toward Stonechild. “Did you get that?”

“You're going to need to translate.”

“Right. She has something to tell us that she thinks will be of interest.”

He spoke with
É
milie at length. Her French was quick, her accent from the Gasp
é
region as far as he could discern. When she finished answering his questions, he looked directly at Stonechild who'd been listening closely without appearing to comprehend much. Now it was
É
milie's turn to watch silently.

“How much of that did you understand?”

“She lost me after
je suis
.”

“What she just told me is incredible. If we are to believe
É
milie, Adele snatched Violet as a newborn from a home fostering the kids whose single mothers are in prison. There was never any adoption.”

“I can't recall a story like this in the news. It would have been what, three to four years ago? Surely, this story would have made the national papers.”

Rouleau asked
É
milie more questions and she responded with what seemed like a reasonable explanation.

“She says that the abduction made the Quebec papers for a few weeks but quickly died away. There wasn't a great deal of interest since the mom was in prison for a violent crime. She was in for selling drugs and beating up a teenager who tried to take off without paying. She hurt him quite badly. Not much public sympathy for her. The file was never closed but it was felt that the father had taken Violet. The mother wasn't in a position to put up much of a fuss.”

“Lovely. And who's the father?”

“Well, this is where it gets really interesting. The mother, whose name is Cécile Simon, worked at one of the bars where Adele used to strip. They knew each other, but not well. Cécile was apparently sleeping with the older Manteau brother — Benoit. She was considered his property.”

É
milie cut in and spoke in her rapid-fire French to Rouleau. He asked her a few questions before translating for Stonechild. “Émilie says that Etienne and Philippe let you find Lana Morris and prompted her ahead of your visit as to what to tell you. Lana barely knew Adele Dufour.
É
milie isn't certain why they misled you but said that these are secretive, tough men. She says that she is actually the one who was closest to Adele. Etienne warned
É
milie not to speak with you before your visit to Chez Louis with Bennett.”

Stonechild thought for a moment before she asked, “Did
É
milie know that Adele had taken the baby?”

“She says that she suspected but was never completely certain until she read in the paper that Adele had a three-year-old daughter. Adele quit her job a few weeks before the baby was snatched and told
É
milie that she was heading to her hometown. She never revealed where that was. She kept her private life private and made up stories about her childhood, depending on the day. The cousins tried to track Adele down at one point but she'd disappeared without a trace.
É
milie says that the cousins tried to get her to tell them where Adele came from, but
É
milie honestly didn't know. It seems that she and Adele agreed when they first became friends that they would not share anything about their pasts with anyone at work. You might say that Adele set up her own disappearance from the very start.”

“Perhaps the cousins found her nonetheless.”

“Perhaps, but there's one final twist.”

“What's that?”

“Cécile Simon was released from Joliette prison over a year ago. She stayed with a stripper acquaintance of
É
milie's in Montreal for a few months after she was released. Cécile told this woman that she had a good idea who'd taken her kid and she was going to make them pay.”

“Where's Cécile now?”

Rouleau ran a hand across his bald pate. “Émilie hasn't kept in touch with her.” Rouleau gave Stonechild a sideways smile that felt like a grimace. “Looks like the suspect pool just widened. I'll give Prevost a call and let him know that you'll be making another visit to Montreal.”

É
milie signalled that she was leaving. She took a look around the food court, as if to assure herself that nobody had followed her.

Stonechild said, “Ask her if the women were expected to turn tricks with customers.”

Rouleau spoke quickly in French and
É
milie scowled. She replied in a few words before standing and backing away from the table. They both watched her strut away from them on her stiletto heels, her only objective appearing to put distance between herself and them.

“She said she wasn't going to talk about work. She'd said enough.”

“She's picked a tough life,” Stonechild said. Rouleau was surprised by the sadness in her voice.

“She appears to have chosen it of her own free will.”

“Yeah. We'd like to think so.”

“I'll just make these phone calls. Prevost should be able to get in touch with Cécile Simon's parole officer.”

“And I'm going to get another burger. Want one?”

“Thanks, I'm good.”

Michel Prevost's phone went directly to voice mail. Rouleau left a message to call him as soon as possible. He then checked in with Gundersund.

“Case wraps up today and I'll be released from testifying again.” Gundersund sounded tired. “Sure, I can make the trip to Montreal tomorrow.”

Rouleau tucked his phone back into his pocket and looked across at Stonechild. She was fully engrossed in eating her second burger. He smiled at her enjoyment whenever she tucked into a meal. She must have felt his eyes on her because she ran her tongue across her top lip and looked over at him. She tilted her head. “Problem?”

“No, just can't reach Prevost. I think we can head back to Kingston and you and Gundersund can head to Montreal tomorrow once Prevost has a chance to track down Cécile Simon.”

“Is he done with the court case?”

“He just told me that the case ends this afternoon.”

“If he'd rather I can always take Bennett.”

“I'll run the idea past him.”

They were back in the truck and pulling onto the Queensway when Stonechild cleared her throat. She kept her eyes on the road and her voice soft. “We have time.”

Rouleau took a second to understand what she was talking about. “You've spoken to my father.” He also kept his eyes straight ahead, not trusting himself to look at her.

“He's waiting for us at the hospice.” She merged the truck into the three lanes of traffic. “Your call.”

Rouleau leaned his head back against the headrest. The clouds were now so low and black that he couldn't understand why it wasn't raining. Almost as if his thoughts had been heard by the universe, several large raindrops splattered against the windshield. Rouleau closed his eyes and saw Frances's face. She was looking up at him from the crook of his arm. They were stretched out on the couch and one of her hands rested on his chest. Her eyes were bright and happy. Her lips were lifted in the sideways smile that made his heart leap.

“Okay,” he said finally. He blinked away the image but the feeling of release remained. The rain was streaking down the window with increasing intensity and Stonechild turned on the wipers. “It's time.”