Death of a Lover
A Barbara O’Grady Mystery
By Sharon Rowse
Three Cedars Press
Vancouver, BC
Copyright © 2012 by Sharon Rowse
Cover photo copyright © 2010 by Sharon Rowse
Cover design copyright © 2012 by Three Cedars Press
Smashwords edition: February 2012
Published by Three Cedars Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, in any manner without express written permission from the publisher, except in the context of reviews.
CONTENTS
Excerpt from: The Silk Train Murder
For my readers – all of those who wanted “more Barbara.” I’m so glad to have the opportunity to share these books with you.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental and not inten
Chapter 1
The phone rang and I jumped, scattering half a scoop of dark Italian roast across the worn beige carpet. Dammit, after a day like today, I needed coffee. This had better be good, I thought as I reached for the phone. “O’Grady Investigations.”
“Barbara, I need your help,” my best friend said.
Oh, great. “Andrea, the last time you asked for my help, I ended up chasing a killer.”
“You caught him, didn’t you?”
“That’s not the point.”
“That’s exactly the point.”
I held the phone away from my ear for a moment and looked at it in disbelief. For about three seconds. Then, with a sigh, I brought the receiver back to its normal position. “Since I doubt you’re involved in another murder…”
“But I am,” she interrupted.
“What?”
“Calm down, Barbara. I don’t mean I’m involved in a murder…”
“Thank God!”
“But Kathleen is.”
I knew I’d regret asking, but I had to know. “Kathleen?”
“Kathleen Marshall. One of my temps.”
“Andrea, I know you take care of your temps. But if this Kathleen has involved herself in a murder investigation, it has nothing to do with you.”
“I feel responsible. If I hadn’t sent her on that job, none of this would have happened.”
“What job?”
“I sent her to fill in as a secretary at Vancouver University—in the PR department.”
That sounded innocuous enough. “So?”
“So she found it so stressful that she went to Hornby Island to recuperate.”
Before I could reply the jack-hammering started up. Again. I slammed the window shut, took a deep breath. “And this involves you how?”
“There was a murder on Hornby and now she’s worried she’s a suspect. If she hadn’t put so much of herself into the job I sent her on, she wouldn’t be.”
“Wouldn’t be what, under investigation or worried?”
“Not funny, Barb.”
“Andrea, this isn’t your problem.”
“It is. It’s a leadership thing.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s your usual over-protective response to your employees.”
“Well, she is my employee, and I’m worried about her. I want to hire you to help her.”
Here we go again. I shifted the phone to my other ear, did my best to sidestep. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You do not want to hire me to help this Kathleen of yours.”
“Barb, she’s frantic. She needs help.”
I stared at the rain sliding down the window. “Then tell her to get a lawyer.”
“She says she doesn’t need a lawyer.”
“Then she doesn’t need a PI, either.”
“Barb, it’s you she wants.”
Me? I didn’t remember ever meeting a Kathleen Marshall. How did she know who I was? Oh no. “Andrea, you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t tell her how I ‘saved’ you.”
“Well, you did.”
“No, I didn’t. Anyway, that’s not the point.”
“Oh, you have a point?”
“You’re not winning yourself any favors here. And yes, I have a point. I do not want to be involved in another murder case.”
Especially not one connected to Andrea. The last one had been quite traumatic enough, thank you, not to mention nearly getting me killed. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how it felt knowing Andrea’s future lay in my ability to track down a killer I couldn’t find. I never wanted to feel that helpless again.
“You could at least listen to the details.”
“Are the police involved?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then it’s being handled. You don’t need me. Unless your temp actually committed the murder—she didn’t, did she?” I asked, suddenly aware of another possible pitfall.
“Kathleen is one of my best people. She’s absolutely reliable.”
“That’s nice. But did she kill somebody?”
“No, she did not! Barb, you’re not helping here.”
“Just keeping my facts straight,” I said with a grin I was glad Andrea couldn’t see. “So, she’s not guilty, the police are working on the case … Why exactly did you want my help?”
I’ve known Andrea too long to expect to get out of it that easily, but it was worth a try.
“Kathleen is a suspect, a strong suspect. You have to help her, she won’t trust anyone else.”
“I thought you said she didn’t kill anyone.”
“She didn’t! But… but she knew the guy who was murdered.”
“She knew him? How well?”
“I think they’d dated. But not recently.”
It only needed that. This case was sounding flakier by the second. I wanted no part of it, but if Andrea really was worried, I’d end up trying to fix things for her. Just like always.
First I’d have to listen to every tiny detail, then I might have a hope of convincing her there was nothing to worry about. Still, I was a little curious about the situation this Kathleen of hers had got herself into.
“This is getting complicated for a phone call.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Kathleen and I need to meet with you. She needs some advice.”
“I still say she needs a lawyer.” Dead silence answered me. I sighed. It had been worth a try, but when Andrea gets into her mother hen mode, dissuading her is like trying to stare down a bulldozer. From a tricycle.
I looked at the client reports strewn across my desk. It was going to take me hours to finalize them, but then I’d officially be between cases. It had been a slow winter. Suddenly talking to Andrea’s temp didn’t sound like such a bad idea.
“OK, I can take a couple of hours now. Where do you want to meet?”
“Brady’s?”
Brady’s is a chic little lounge with a terrific view of the harbor and the mountains. It’s one of my favorite places to go for a watch-the-sun-set drink. Even on a bleak day like today I could watch the play of light and dark in the water and sky for hours. I may not paint much anymore, but you don’t lose the painter’s eye. Still, Brady’s doesn’t leap to mind as a place to talk about murder.
On the other hand, it should be pretty empty this time of day, and the service is fast and discreet. It’s also close to Andrea’s office and not far from mine, with decent parking. Well, decent for Vancouver, which means convenient but pricey. It’s when they start charging by the half hour that you know you’re in trouble.
And if I was going to be consulted on murder, I’d need something a little stronger than coffee. “Brady’s is good,” I said.
* * *
Half an hour later, the three of us were seated at a black marble table looking out on a gray windswept stretch of water meeting an even grayer sky. The North Shore mountains were lost behind heavy clouds, and only one rusted black freighter lay at anchor, where usually seven or eight are moored. Rain lashed against the wall-to-ceiling windows, making me glad of the fire that blazed in the limestone fireplace taking up most of the far wall.
Andrea introduced us.
“Kathleen Marshall, Barbara O’Grady.”
Kathleen didn’t look like a woman capable of murdering her ex-lover. Even Andrea, soft blond curls, angel-smile and all, looked like she had more passion in her. In her early thirties, Kathleen was a tall, thin blond with a horsy face and pouty lips. Her hair hung lank around a pale face, and her eyes looked glazed. Grief? Or something else?
Andrea ordered a soda water with lime. Kathleen ordered a double Scotch. I’d expected her to order something sweet and trendy; maybe there was more to her than showed on the surface. I was tempted to join her, but I had reports to finish. Plus I was working, sort of. I ordered a glass of Merlot.
We made polite chit chat until the drinks arrived. Then I looked from Andrea to Kathleen. “OK. One of you fill me in. What’s going on?”
“Andrea sent me on a job at VU about six weeks ago,” Kathleen said. “It was a tough one, and after it finished I needed a break. So I booked into an inn on Hornby Island.”
Taking a long weekend on one of the Gulf Islands located between the BC mainland and Vancouver Island is most Vancouverites’ version of the perfect getaway, and Hornby is one of my been my favorites. It takes three ferries to get from Vancouver to Hornby, so it isn’t as touristy as Saltspring or Galliano. I love the unspoiled quality of the island, but with my schedule, I seldom find time for a long weekend away. The price of having one’s own business, I thought with a twinge of envy for Kathleen’s freedom. “You ever been there before?”
She shook her head.
“What made you choose it?”
“Anne, one of my co-workers, said it was quiet and had top-notch service. Just what the doctor ordered.”
Where do I sign? I thought. I wasn’t exactly having one of my better weeks, even before Andrea’s call. Nick was on assignment somewhere and I hadn’t heard from him for four days, my insurance was due at the end of the month, it had been raining since Monday and the last three cases I’d worked had been insurance surveillance, which are boring at the best of times and deadly in the rain. An escape to Hornby sounded wonderful. “So you arrived when?”
“Friday morning. The job ended Thursday.”
“OK. And the death happened when?”
“Sunday morning.” She paused, looked down at her hands, which were gripping the glass until her knuckles showed white. Loosening her grip, she continued, “We… we found him dead. He was late for breakfast.”
Yeah, dying will do that to you. “What time was this?”
“After eight, nearly eight-thirty.”
“And who was he?”
“He?” She seemed to be having trouble focusing.
“The dead guy.”
Kathleen’s face went white and she downed her Scotch. I’d temporarily forgotten she had a history with the dead man. Andrea patted Kathleen’s shoulder and grimaced at me.
Well, at least Kathleen’s distress seemed genuine. That was slightly reassuring, given the doubts I had about what I’d heard so far. Not reassuring enough to take her on as a client, though. “I’m sorry. Can you tell me his name?”
“Bill. Bill Rampage.”
“And where did Bill live?”
“Vancouver. He is… was a consultant.”
Ah, a business shark. “Andrea tells me you’d dated?”
She nodded, and signaled the waiter for another drink. “Yes. Yes, we did.”
“For how long?”
“Four months. But it seemed longer. Bill…” She stopped and for a moment I thought she couldn’t go on. Then she took a deep breath and finished, “Bill was a wonderful man. Warm and caring. I don’t think he ever met a soul he didn’t like. And they all loved him. I can’t believe he’s… he’s…” She stopped, put her napkin to her lips.
Andrea made soothing noises. Kathleen gave her a weak smile.
I gave her a moment, drank some of my Merlot, which was excellent. I prefer red wines anyway, but on a day like this red wine and a real fire are essential for keeping the bleak grayness out there, where it belongs.
“When was it you dated?” I asked Kathleen when she seemed to have recovered a little.
“Two, no three years ago.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and gulped down half of the drink the waiter had just presented her with.
Four months, three years ago, and she was still missing him. She must have really cared about the guy. I wondered why their relationship had ended, which made me think of Nick, wonder how long we’d last. I wrenched my thoughts back. “Had you known he’d be there? On the island?”
“No,” she said, but her eyes flickered.
Something wrong here. She was lying to me, and I wasn’t sure why. “You’d seen him since you split up?”
“Oh yes. Bill and I, we were friends.”
“When had you seen him last? Before Hornby, I mean?”
“I can’t remember exactly.”
“But the two of you made independent arrangements and happened to arrive at the same place.”
“Yes.”
Uh huh. I didn’t believe her. But what did she hope to gain by lying? Then again, why did any of my clients lie? And most of them did, I’d accepted that a long time ago. Not happily, but life is better when I can pay my bills on time. Dodging the landlord is such a pain. “And was he alone?”
“Not initially. But by Sunday.”
“He arrived with someone?”
“Sure, some blonde. But she got upset, left on Saturday.”
“And what was she upset about?”
“I don’t know. Me, I think,” she said, downing the last of her scotch and signaling for another.
I took a slow sip of my wine, so I wouldn’t start yelling at her. “Let me get this straight. The dead man’s girlfriend left because of you.”
“Yes,” she agreed, sounding calmer than I felt. Probably it was the scotch. Especially if she’d been drinking before she’d arrived, as I’d begun to suspect. Nothing like a little alcohol to undermine logic and dull a healthy sense of panic.
“Are the police calling it murder?”
She nodded.
“And you’re a suspect?”
“I think so, anyway.”
“You think so?” How could she not know?
“Well, they haven’t said so directly, but they asked an awful lot of questions. And they didn’t seem to believe me when I said I hadn’t known Bill would be there.”
This was sounding worse for her by the minute. I kept my voice level with an effort. “Why did they think you knew Bill would be there?”
“I
don’t know. But I’ve been told not to leave town,” she said,
smiling at the cute blond guy who’d just brought her drink.
That
didn’t mean she was a suspect. Didn’t mean she wasn’t, either.
But maybe Kathleen was misinterpreting the police reaction to the
case. I knew I was reaching, but the more I heard, the less I liked
the sound of this case, and the less I wanted to be involved. “And
when did this all happen?”
“Last Sunday.”
Today was Thursday. “And you haven’t heard anything else from them?”
“No,” she said absently. She seemed to be trying to flirt with the waiter.
That was good news, but Kathleen’s current behavior wasn’t. I looked at Andrea, who read my expression accurately, because she jumped in.
“Kathleen,” she said, her voice sharp. Kathleen looked at her. “Barbara needs to know what you’ve heard from the police.”
“Nothing at all.” And she smiled sloppily at Andrea and then at me before turning to look for the waiter again.
“So why did you call me?” I asked Andrea, speaking across Kathleen, who was ignoring us.
Giving Kathleen a look that was half anger and half compassion, Andrea shrugged. “I was worried about Kathleen and it seemed like a good idea?”
“Yeah, right. Look, you don’t need me on this case. She may not even be a suspect. And if it’s murder, any investigating I could do, the police can do better.”
Andrea gave me a direct look. “But what if Kathleen is a suspect, Barb? We both know innocence is no guarantee. And I know Kathleen hasn’t made a good impression, but I’ve never seen her like this before.”
She wasn’t kidding Kathleen hadn’t made a good impression. Aside from the fact that she’d been lying to us, she couldn’t hold her alcohol. It’s funny, I automatically think less of people who don’t drink well. The influence of my father, I guess, who could always hold his liquor. Just not his temper. “From what I’ve heard, Kathleen may need a good lawyer, but she doesn’t need me.”
“She thinks she does. And she won’t talk to a lawyer.”
“Why not?”
Andrea shrugged. “That you’d have to ask her.” We both looked at Kathleen, who was now gazing raptly into the bottom of her nearly empty glass. “Of course, right now there’s no point in asking her anything.”
“She’d do better talking to Claire.”
Claire Chan is the lawyer who’d represented Andrea when she was arrested for the murder of her tenant last fall. I wished I hadn’t mentioned her when I saw Andrea’s face. Every time I mention Claire, Andrea remembers being arrested. And then she remembers that I was the one who tracked down the real killer and cleared her name.
“Kathleen won’t talk to a lawyer,” Andrea repeated. “I’ve tried to change her mind, but she’s convinced she wants you.” She paused, taking a sip of her soda. “She thinks she needs someone to find the murderer. After all, you caught Jake’s killer,” she added, as if it were an afterthought.
And look how much fun that was. “Oh no, you don’t. I only got involved then because it was you.”
“And you saved me from a life behind bars. I don’t know why you’re so upset. It wasn’t as if you actually had to confront a killer or anything. And this time it’s for one of my employees. And for my peace of mind.”
Easy for her to say. She wasn’t the one who had everyone’s expectations on her shoulders while her best friend rotted in jail.
“I have a business to run, Andrea, bills to pay.” Which meant invoices to send out, dammit. I hate paperwork. And I especially hate it when there are no new cases waiting when the paperwork is done.
“I realize that. I’ll pay for your time, at your standard rate. For the time you spend with Kathleen, and any other time you might put in. And look at it this way. If you’re right, and you find out Kathleen isn’t a suspect, your job is done.”
OK, Andrea was worried enough to put money on the line. This was sounding serious. “And if she is?”
“You said she probably wasn’t.”
“Just trying for a little clarity.” Plus I needed to know exactly what she wanted me to commit to. With Andrea, it’s never a wise idea to proceed on assumptions.
Andrea shrugged. “Think how it would reflect on my agency if it gets around that I’m hiring suspected killers.”
“So you want her name cleared. As long as you don’t share Kathleen’s delusion that I’m going to be tracking down killers.”
“Look, Barb, I won’t leave one of my employees in a jam because of a job I was paying her to do. I’d never be able to sleep at night.”
Andrea’s temporary help agency is literally the best in town, for two reasons. One is that she provides top-notch people who can actually do the job they’re hired to do, which is a lot rarer than you’d think. The second is that Andrea really cares about her people, and they know it. But even for Andrea, this was carrying loyalty too far. Not that she’d see that, of course. “Even if the employee doesn’t seem interested in helping herself?”
She glanced at Kathleen. “Even then.”
I sighed. In the twenty-three years I’ve known her, I’ve never managed to get Andrea to see the logic of a situation once she gets that tone in her voice. She thought Kathleen was in trouble, she felt responsible for the situation Kathleen was in, and she’d worry about it until it was resolved. Barbara to the rescue, as my younger sister would say. So much for my getting out of investigating this one.
Well, what would it hurt to talk to Kathleen again, find out what she was lying about? It wasn’t as if I had another case.
Wouldn’t be today, though, I thought, looking over at Kathleen, who was now face down on the table. At first I thought she was in tears, but then I heard the gentle snores. Taking out my card, I handed it to Andrea.
“Have her call me,” I said. “And you owe me one.”
She grinned at me. “I knew I could count on you, Barb.”
Uh huh. That’s what got me in trouble the last time.
Chapter 2
So how had Bill Rampage died? And what wasn’t Kathleen telling me? I wondered as I drove back to my office, windshield wipers swishing rapidly in an odd counterpoint to the spiraling jazz on the CD player. Kathleen had given me few details to work with. Aside from a rather nice glass of Merlot, the entire meeting had been a waste of time.
Back in my office, I glared at the disaster of paperwork I’d left behind. With a quick sweep, I cleared all of it off my desk, plopping the resultant pile on top of a handy filing cabinet. Pulling off the top report, I sat down and finalized it. While the invoice printed, I rewarded myself by picking up the phone and calling Andrea.
I was surprised when she answered on the first ring. I’d half expected her still to be ministering to Kathleen. “So, what did you do with Super Secretary?”
A long sigh was my answer. “Poured her into a cab. Honestly, she’s not usually like that, Barb.”
“I hope not, cause if that’s your best employee, your agency’s in deep trouble.”
“Funny, Barb. Very funny. Why are you calling?”
“I need some details on the murder, and I don’t think I’m going to get much out of Kathleen for a while.”
That got a reluctant laugh. “No, probably not. Did you see her trying to flirt with that waiter? If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was Kathleen’s evil twin.”
“That’s it. Kathleen’s evil twin is the murderer, and your so wonderful employee did nothing.”
“Barbara, you’ve solved another case. I’m so impressed.”
“Does this mean you’re not hiring me?”
“Not likely.”
“Figures.”
“Never mind complaining. What did you want to know?”
I grimaced at the ground coffee still spread across the carpet. They’d just vacuumed that carpet. Knowing our cleaning service, I’d be lucky if it was vacuumed again this century. “Any details you have on how Rampage died.”
“Why don’t you call Nick and ask him? He’s supposed to be some hotshot police detective, isn’t he? I’m sure he could find out for you.”
Nick and I had met a few months ago on a case when I wasn’t sure which side he was on; even then it was hard to keep him at arm’s length. When he turned out to be one of the good guys, I gave up trying. And we’re great together. This much heat this fast, though, I figure we’ll burn ourselves out before too long. It’s not exactly a relationship, but I’m enjoying the hell out of it while it lasts.
“You are still seeing Nick, aren’t you? You haven’t managed to find an excuse to dump him, too?” Andrea was asking.
“What do you mean, too? And yes, I’m still seeing him.”
Andrea ignored my question. “So ask him,” she said.
I would have, except that he was undercover on a case of his own. I couldn’t even get hold of him, which I found frustrating, but I wasn’t about to admit that to Andrea. She’d make way too much of it, like she always does. I’ve never figured out why Andrea’s so determined to find the right guy for me. It’s not like she’s in a committed relationship, after all. And I’m not the type for a long-term relationship—too much trouble. Which Andrea should have figured out by now, given my track record.
“He’s out of town,” I said. Close enough.
“Does this mean the romance is in trouble?”
“It means he’s out of town.”
“You don’t sound too happy about it.”
I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to admit I missed Nick, even to myself. I definitely wasn’t about to admit it to Andrea. “He’ll call me when he’s back.”
“So when do I get to meet this Superman of yours?”
“He’s not a Superman, and I don’t know. Soon, maybe.”
“You’ve been dating him, what? Four months now? Any man that can stay in the running with you for that long is a Superman in my books.”
“Three months.” And four days. Something else I wasn’t planning on sharing with Andrea. “You make it sound like I’m too critical or something.”
“No, just gun-shy. Jayson has a lot to answer for.”
I wasn’t touching that one. Not that I agreed with her—my relationship with Jayson was more than four years ago now— but if I said anything, we’d end up arguing in circles. Why do best friends always think they know you better than you know yourself? And then insist on sharing that knowledge with you? “Did Kathleen tell you anything about how Bill Rampage died?”
“No. Just that they were staying at someplace called the Sunshine Inn, on Hornby.”
I hate places with cutesy names. Probably because my ex-flower child mother loves them. “OK, thanks, Andrea. I’ll be in touch.”
“And I still want to meet Nick,” she said. “You can’t hide your world from him forever.”
And she hung up.
I listened to the dead receiver for a moment, thinking about that last remark. I wasn’t hiding Nick from everyone, just enjoying being with him. I didn’t want to mess with it. And Andrea might not see herself as a disruptive element, but even she’d agree that my family was. I grinned at the thought and dialed my other official source, my old buddy Jerry.
“Haworth.”
“Jerry, it’s Barbara. Do you have a minute?”
“Is this official?”
“Yes.”
He sighed. “Tell me it’s not another murder, O’Grady.”
“My client is barely a suspect. I’m trying to clear her name.”
“Yeah, right. I’ve heard that before. OK, you’ve got ten.”
“Do you know anything about a murder that happened on Hornby Island? Local guy named Rampage.”
“Nope, can’t help you there, O’Grady. Not our jurisdiction.”
“Come on, Jerry. The local RCMP would check with you guys, as a courtesy if nothing else.”
He grunted. “They contacted us, but that’s about it. I don’t know where the investigation’s at.”
Well, if he was going to be difficult, I had a secret weapon. It helps when you’ve known someone since you were both seven. “Rocky Road ice cream?”
“The good stuff?”
“Aren’t you concerned about the state of your arteries?”
“Not when it comes to ice cream. Deal?”
“Depends what you’ve got.”
He chuckled. “Not a lot. But I want the good stuff anyway.”
“OK, OK, you’ve got it. But under protest.”
“The local RCMP made some inquiries after the body was discovered. We’re not handling the case, but they’ll keep us advised.”
“You don’t know if they’re near making an arrest?”
“Nope.”
“Do you know how he died?”
“Sorry, O’Grady.”
“Sorry you don’t know, or sorry, you can’t tell me?”
All I heard was the patter of raindrops against the window and the swish of tires on wet pavement. OK, he knew but couldn’t tell me. “Who has the case? I’ll give him a call.”
“I don’t think you’ll get very far.”
“It won’t hurt to try.”
“Your funeral. Talk to Sgt. Brad Bramwell in Nanaimo.”
“Thanks, Jerry. What about the victim, Rampage? Know anything about him?”
“Not officially, no.”
“Not officially? Do you know something unofficial?”
“The man liked the ladies, and he liked to live high. One DUI charge, no conviction.”
“Good lawyer?”
“You bet. Craig.”
Ah. Ian Craig had made a small fortune defending well-heeled clients from their own folly. Still, it was food for thought. Bill Rampage’s background would bear looking into. “Thanks, Jer.”
“And my ice cream?”
Ice cream on a cold, wet April day. I shuddered. I’m one of the few women I know that only likes ice cream on really hot days. Sit by myself after a messy breakup and eat a whole carton of ice cream? No thanks. Give me chocolate any day. “On its way.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I’ve been let down before.”
“I’m wounded.”
“And I’m waiting for my ice cream.”
“I’ll send it by courier. Satisfied?”
He laughed. “Sure you will. Keep your nose clean, O’Grady.”
“Yeah, yeah. See ya, Jerry.”
I hung up, then grinned to myself and picked up the phone again. I wished I’d be there to see Jerry trying to explain a courier delivery of ice cream to his buddies. The best part was, once word got around, he’d be lucky to get more than a couple of spoonfuls.
That detail taken care of, I looked at the name Jerry had given me. If I called Brad Bramwell, asking questions about an ongoing investigation, I’d be lucky to get the victim’s name, never mind any details. The police don’t like private investigators messing in their murder investigations. Not that I blame them. I don’t much like it either.
Given Jerry’s reaction, I suspected that Sgt. Bramwell was more close-mouthed than some. Maybe I’d hold off, see what sense I could get out of a sober Kathleen. I shrugged, turned off the computer. It was still possible that there was no case for me to worry about.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later I was propping up the bar at Guido’s with a glass of good burgundy of one hand and a menu in the other. I surveyed the busy main room of my neighborhood restaurant, nodded to a couple of the other regulars. All the booths along the walls were full, and red-checked curtains were drawn against a wet and windy night. A fake fire blazed in the raw stone fireplace across from the bar, and most of the barstools were taken. The room felt warm and welcoming, smelling of baking bread and roasting garlic. I’d have to shout to be heard over the din.
Now this was more like it. Even if I’d probably taken on another of Andrea’s impossible cases. Even if Kathleen was a strange one. Even if I was missing Nick and not wanting to admit it. For about the third time that day I wondered how Nick was making out on his latest investigation, the one he couldn’t tell me about.
I’ve often thought that an undercover detective has the perfect job for any number of secret liaisons. He’s gone for long periods of time, which he can’t talk about, and during which he can’t be contacted. Nick could have a wife in another province, or even several wives in several cities, and I’d be none the wiser. Hell, he could have a wife right here in Vancouver and I might never find out. No, that was out, because I’d already checked—there’s only one Nicholas P. Markham and he lives alone. At least in this city.
I don’t really believe he’s a bigamist, or involved with someone else. He’s the kind of man who’d tell me if he were. I think it’s some kind of mental insurance against our inevitable flameout, a way of anticipating and therefore lessening the pain. Unlikely to work, but it gives me some sense of control and doesn’t stop me from enjoying the moment. I hadn’t expected to miss him so much, though. And I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.
I ordered another glass of burgundy and a plate of calamari and turned my thoughts to Kathleen’s case. It had been nearly five days since the murder and so far no one had been arrested. Either the police had no clear suspect, or they wanted to be very sure of the one they had. At least Kathleen hadn’t been found with the murder weapon in her purse. That was the risk in having a lying client; not knowing how wide the lies spread. Kathleen’s lies seemed mostly about her relationship with the victim. Since he’d been murdered, I didn’t find that terribly reassuring.
Guido brought my calamari himself, putting the heaped plate on the counter in front of me with a flourish.
“Ciao, bella,” he greeted me, giving me a hearty kiss on each cheek. “Tonight, my calamari is perfect. It will make that sad look fly away from your face.”
“Thanks, Guido. It smells wonderful.” And it did, but it looked even better than it smelled, if that was possible. Piles of rings breaded golden brown, the pale green of tzatziki sauce and the bright yellow of the lemon slices had me torn between reaching for a fork or a paintbrush.
The fork won out, but I grinned, imagining the look on Guido’s face if I told him I wanted to paint his calamari instead of eat it. He’d probably never let me through the doors again. Guido has an Italian’s respect for art, but food is his first love.
“So, how is it?”
“Just a sec.” I picked up a perfectly round piece, swirled it through the creamy tzatziki and took a bite, closing my eyes to savor the rich garlicky taste. “Mmmm. You’ve outdone yourself. It’s great.”
He nodded in agreement and bustled off. How, after all, could anything at Guido’s be less than great? And while Guido might be a bit of an egomaniac, he’s not only a great cook, he’s a dear. Dinner at Guido’s can cheer me up no matter what I’m dealing with. Even clients who’ve had intimate relationships with men who have subsequently been murdered.
I chewed on a piece of squid, thinking about Kathleen. For a woman who thought she was in imminent danger of being charged with murder, she was doing a pathetic job of clearing herself. Of course, I had only her word that she was a suspect. She could be intent on having me investigate the murder for some reason of her own.
I swirled another morsel of calamari through the tzatziki and popped it in my mouth. It’s amazing how good food helps my thought processes. It’s a very good thing I run every day. And that I inherited my mother’s metabolism.
“Barbara O’Grady! It is you, isn’t it? What are you doing here, so lost in thought?”
I nearly dropped my fork at the cheery voice from right behind me. I swiveled the bar stool to see a laughing face framed in long dark hair and a pair of twinkling eyes.
“Shelley? Shelley Campagnaro. I don’t believe it. How long has it been?”
“It’s me, but it’s Masters now,” she said, waving a finger emblazoned with a couple of very large diamonds at me as she slid into the seat beside mine. “And it’s been way too long.”
I caught Guido’s eye and pointed at my glass, then held up two fingers. He beamed. Guido’s always pleased to see me with other people. Social himself, I suspect he thinks I spend too much time alone. I suspect he may be right, but that’s what happens when you’re a PI. Surveillance is a solitary sport. And I grew out of wild parties a couple of years after university.
“That’s right, I’d heard you got married. You still drink red?” Shelley’s a friend from university days, and at that point cheap reds were about all any of us could afford. Judging by her silk tunic and pants, to say nothing of that ring, she could afford better these days.
“Of course.”
“Good thing,” I said as Guido placed a glass in front of her.
“Now, that’s service.” And lifting the glass, she asked, “What shall we drink to?”
“Old friends?”
“Sounds good. To you, Barbara. It’s so good to see you again.”
We clinked glasses, drank. “It’s good to see you, too. What brings you back? Last I heard, you were settled in Seattle.”
“Still am. I’m here for a show, at the Courtland Gallery.”
“The Courtland, no less? I’m impressed. A one-woman show?”
“No, it’s myself and two other women. A bit of a retrospective.”
“That’s terrific,” I said warmly, beating back a spear of envy. I’d always liked Shelley, and I was happy for her. Still, it was hard to hear about someone else’s success in a field I’d once expected to be mine. Even though I hadn’t finished a painting in over a year.
“Thanks,” said Shelley. “You know, I used to dream about us doing shows together one day. You were good.”
“Well, thanks. Same goes.”
“Do you still paint?”
“Now and again. My current career keeps me pretty busy.”
“It must. I couldn’t believe it when Sara told me you’d become an investigator. However did you get into that? And don’t you miss your art?”
“Whoa. Slow down,” I said, laughing. “Same old Shelley, I see. I’ll tell you, but it’s a long story. Do you want some calamari?”
Guido had thoughtfully provided an extra fork and another napkin when he brought Shelley’s wine.
“Sure, thanks. But only if you’ll tell me your story.” She picked up the fork as she spoke.
“If you insist.” I paused for another sip of wine, prolonging the suspense. Shelley’s always hated having to wait. She knew what I was doing and shook a finger at me. Which didn’t stop her spearing another golden ring of calamari with her other hand.
Shelley loves good food as much as I do, which was another of the bonds between us. Looking at her now, it seemed impossible we’d lost touch so thoroughly, despite the ten plus years. “You know I was doing temp work?”
She nodded. “Me too. It paid the bills.”
“Exactly. One job was a security company, offered me full time work. The money was good, my career wasn’t going anywhere, so I took it. I told myself I’d still have time to paint, but without worrying about paying the bills.”
She made an expressive face.
“Yeah, pretty much, but I found the work fascinating. When they offered to train me as an investigator, I couldn’t see a reason to turn it down.”
“And your art?”
I knew she wouldn’t let it go so easily. And my painting wasn’t something I could easily lie about, not to Shelley. Not when she’d pursued the dream I’d abandoned. So I told the truth. Sort of.
“I couldn’t do justice to both, so I focused on investigating. It’s a career that is going somewhere. I’ve had my own firm for a while now, and things are pretty good.”
“Do you paint at all?”
“Once in a while. When I’ve got some free time and the mood strikes.”
Shelley just looked at me, then shook her head slowly. “I don’t buy it, Barbara. You’re an artist, and that doesn’t go away. I have no doubt you’re a good investigator. In fact, it kind of makes sense. You were always the one who had to solve everyone else’s problems. But giving up your art makes no sense.”
She paused, tilted her head slightly sideways as she looked me up and down. “You’re no quitter. It’s not like you to give up on something that matters to you. OK, who was he?”
“He who?”
“Never mind he who. The guy who undermined your confidence in yourself as an artist, that’s who!”
I reached for my wine and took a long swallow. Had Shelley known Jayson? No, I met him after she’d left town. And he hadn’t made me give up my art. I’d come to accept I’d never be quite good enough. Of course, Jayson had never hesitated to give a little friendly criticism, point out areas that needed improvement. But he hadn’t had that much influence on me. Had he?
Shelley looked at me shrewdly. “I see I was right. Don’t bother to deny it.”
“Have some more calamari.”
“You can’t deny yourself forever, Barbara. I learned that the hard way.” She paused, took a tiny sip of wine. “My husband’s one of the best plastic surgeons in Washington State, but he’s a busy man. He needs a wife who’ll caretake for him. I tried to be that wife, but it meant that painting came second and after a while I couldn’t live that way. I was withering, becoming a nagging, impatient witch. To put it politely.”
She paused again, took another miniscule sip. What had happened to the Shelley I knew, the one that savored life in great laughing gulps?
“I was lucky,” she said. “I figured out what was happening before it got too late, and we managed to find a compromise. Now we’ve got a housekeeper who lives in and takes care of both of us, and we each have our careers. But when there’s something so central, so core to who you are, you can’t ignore it. Can you?”
I shrugged. I should have known better.
“Barbara O’Grady! You can’t deny yourself and shrug off your God-given talent like that. It isn’t healthy. You’ll wind up paying for it.”
Shelley was always a bit of a crusader. Unfortunately for my peace of mind. I didn’t want to rehash my career choices, especially with someone whose painting career had clearly taken off. As if sensing something of how I felt, Shelley gave me a searching look when I asked about her latest works, but accepted the change of topic.
“I’ve moved away from abstract—you’ll remember I was pretty focused on abstracts for a while?” At my nod, she continued “Now I’m doing representative work that’s almost photographic in detail, but the perspective shifts... I can’t describe it. You’ll have to see it.”
“Sounds good. How long is the show on?”
“Till mid-June. But the opening is tomorrow night. Why don’t you come?”
“Well,” I stalled, not sure how I felt about seeing her success in that kind of public situation.
“Oh, come on. If you’ve got a date, just bring him along. The more crowded it is, the bigger success the media will report.”
“True. OK, I’ll be there,” I said, making a sudden decision.
“And bring someone?”
“He’s out of town,” I said before I thought about it. I’m not sure Nick is my ‘someone’, but my subconscious seems to be clear on the matter.
“Well, I’m glad there’s someone. Unless . . . is he an artist, too?”
“Not exactly. He’s a cop.”
“A cop? Not the guy that put you off art?” she said. “Good.”
Interesting conclusion she’d drawn. I wanted to argue with her, but I couldn’t, not with these unexpected doubts about the role Jayson had played yammering at the edges of my mind. Andrea had talked about Jayson putting me off relationships often enough, but I’d avoided thinking about him and my career. I really didn’t want to think about it now, or remember his cutting remarks, but Shelley’s words wouldn’t be banished. Maybe because she was an artist too.
Shelley didn’t notice my hesitation. She was busy rummaging in her suitcase-sized leather shoulder bag. They used to be imitation leather, but other than that it looked exactly like the bags she’s been carrying forever. And she could never find what she was looking for back then either, I remembered with a grin. It was good to know some things never changed.
Before I had time to change expression, Shelley was facing me again, a triumphant look on her face. “Found it,” she exclaimed, handing me a very elaborate invitation. “And take that look off your face. I always end up finding what I’m looking for.”
Even the line was the same. I couldn’t help it, I burst out laughing, and Shelley, bless her, laughed right along with me. “Thanks, Shell,” I said, taking the card from her. “Very impressive. They’re doing you proud.”
She nodded, and beamed. “Sometimes I can’t quite believe it,” she confessed. “Remember when it was our dream to show at these little chi-chi galleries?”
I nodded. I remembered only too well. And sitting here, eating, drinking, laughing and talking art with Shelley felt so familiar, it suddenly felt utterly wrong not to be sharing that dream with her. “And now you are. I’m glad we ran into each other. I wouldn’t miss your opening for the world.”
Shelley reached over and gave me a hug, nearly managing to spill my wine in the process. “Barbara, you put up a good front, but we all know that underneath that cynicism you’re as much a dreamer as any of us.”
Before I could respond, always assuming I could think of a response, she glanced at her watch and gave a small shriek. “I’m late. Blake’s going to kill me. I’m always making him wait, and I promised faithfully that this time I’d be on time.”
And she was gone in a swirl of cloak and admonitions not to miss her show.
Chapter 3
The following morning came way too early. I hadn’t slept well, had lain listening to the rain for what seemed hours, then been caught up in disconnected dreams that left me feeling empty. The furry orange and white lump that insisted on taking up most of the bed hadn’t helped matters. Reaching out with a groan to shut off the alarm’s blare, I opened one eye—to a close-up of black-speckled pink gums and sharp pointed teeth.
“Do you have to yawn in my face, Cat? Isn’t it enough that you practically shoved me off the bed last night?”
He gave me a smug look, then leapt off the bed and headed for the kitchen.
Muttering to myself, I got up and followed. Glaring at him, I switched on the coffee maker.
“Rowwwrr.”
“Why are you here, anyway? It’s not as if you live here. Go home, will you?”
Cat blinked at me.
“Wherever home is.”
He was now staring at the cupboard where I kept the tuna. I gave up, reached for the tuna and the can opener. Cat began to purr. “I swear, as soon as I get this case wrapped up, I’m going to find out who you belong to. And deliver you, gift-wrapped.”
Cat raised his head from the tuna, ran a long tongue across his lips, and purred. With a sigh, I reached for the coffee. Without coffee, I was not up for this.
By the time I’d fed both of us, gone for my run, gotten soaked, showered and made it into the office, it was well after nine. Luckily I had no appointments that morning. Of course, no appointments meant no new revenue, which was worrisome. Putting on a pot of French Roast, I sat down to deal with the rest of those invoices.
My eye fell on the invitation to Shelley’s opening, which I’d propped against my phone as a reminder, not that I was likely to forget. I’d decided to go, despite mixed feelings about reconnecting with that world. Shelley seemed to want me there, and though I was curious to see how her style had evolved, I wasn’t looking exactly looking forward to it. Before I had a chance to talk myself out of going, the phone rang.
“O’Grady Investigations. Barbara O’Grady speaking.”
It didn’t surprise me to hear Kathleen’s voice. “We should meet,” she said in a subdued voice.
I suspected she was suffering from a killer hangover, which served her right. “I agree.”
“Shall we say Brady’s?”
And let her near the Scotch again? Not a chance. “Sorry, I can’t fit it into my schedule. Why don’t you come to my office. Say around eleven?”
“Yes, I can do that. How do I get there?”
I gave her directions, and rang off.
Completing reports and finalizing invoices always seems to take forever. I was surprised when I looked up and it was quarter to eleven. Stretching mightily, I put on another pot of coffee, then stood at the window watching the city darken under thick black clouds while I waited for the gentle bubbling sound. It had stopped raining earlier, but it looked like we were in for another deluge. No wonder travel agents are always so busy this time of year. Despite an incredible week of warmth and sunshine in March, it felt as if it had been wet, cold and gray forever. Kathleen announced her presence with a rap on my door.
“Come in.”
She strode in and gave me a firm handshake. There was no sign of the woman who had been downing Scotch the previous day. Her makeup was perfect, her hair up in a French twist. She was wearing a trim navy suit and tiny diamond earrings and carrying a furled navy umbrella. This must be Kathleen’s business persona. No wonder Andrea had been so surprised yesterday, if this was the Kathleen she was used to dealing with.
Kathleen seated herself across the desk from me and folded her hands together. “What would you like me to tell you?”
I like a client who gets straight to the point, but in this particular client it made me uneasy. Who was the real Kathleen? “Care for some coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
I got up to get my own cup. As I did so, I noticed her eyes were very busily checking out every detail of my vintage oak desk and dented filing cabinets. I remember from my own long ago days as a temp how much an office can tell you about the business that’s conducted there. Long-term temps seem to develop a sixth sense when it comes to the work environment. I’d once walked out of a temp assignment because everything about the setup screamed sleazy.
I wondered what conclusions Kathleen was drawing as she looked at my office and tried to see it through her eyes. It wasn’t fancy. I’d had neither the time nor the money for frills, but it was organized and it was professional. And it was mine. Maybe it didn’t look like Howe Street, but I was proud of the accomplishments it symbolized, battered furniture and all.
Sitting down again, I looked directly at Kathleen. “You’ve temped in a lot of different offices. What was your first impression of the Sunshine Inn as a workplace?”
She looked taken aback for a moment, and slightly guilty, as if she felt caught out. Then she relaxed, and smiled at me. “You’re good. Andrea told me you were.” She paused, bit her lip. “It was very clean, nicely decorated, had a welcoming feel to it. Warm. You could tell they know their stuff.”
“Had Bill been there before?”
“Yes, several times.”
“But you hadn’t?”
“No.”
I made a note. “So, why don’t you start by giving me the details of the death. Was it murder?”
“The police seemed pretty sure it was.”
“OK. Tell me why.”
“Well, we found him on Sunday morning. About 8:15, if that matters?”
I looked up from the notes I was making, nodded. “I need as much detail as you can remember.”
“Fine.” This must be the efficient woman Andrea knew. She took a deep breath. “He… he was half in and half out of his bed, his face was splotchy red, the bedclothes were twisted around him and he’d been… he’d been sick. Everywhere. I still can’t get the smell out of my mind.”
“Poison?”
She nodded. “That seemed to be what the police thought.”
“Did they say what kind of poison?” Her description matched the little I knew of cyanide poisoning, but death by poisoning is not exactly a specialty of mine. At least it meant that the murderer wasn’t likely to be violent. Just deadly.
“No. They said nothing, just secured the scene and set about interviewing everyone.”
“Other than yourself and the victim, how many people were there?”
“Well, besides Bill and me there were four other guests, the inn-keeper and his wife, and two, no three staff. I think most of the staff were part-time.”
“And did you know any of the other guests?”
“Just… just to say good morning to. It was Bill who…” Kathleen put her hand to her mouth and gave a half-sob. Then, as she composed herself, “Sorry.”
“Are you all right?”
She nodded. “I want to get this over with.”
I could understand that. “Sure. You were saying something about Bill?”
“Everyone loved him.”
Someone didn’t. “Do you know who found the body?”
“I did.”
Oh, great. “You went up to his room?”
“Yes. We’d arranged to meet for breakfast. He was late.”
“You knew which room he was in?”
She nodded. “It was next to mine.”
Of course it was. This just kept getting better. “When did you arrange to meet for breakfast?”
“The previous evening.”
“And was this before or after his girlfriend left?”
“After.”
It seemed Bill didn’t waste any time. “And the girlfriend’s name?”
“He introduced her as Terri. No last name.”
“You’d never met her before?”
“No.”
Her eyes flickered. She was lying again. I was getting tired of it. I picked up a pencil, tapped the eraser end against the desk. “Had you ever seen them together before?”
“Not really.”
Tap. Tap. “Not really?”
She flushed slightly. “I’d see them walking together sometimes. On the Seawall.”
Vancouver’s seawall, ringing Stanley Park in the heart of the West End, is one of our claims to fame. It’s the perfect place to stroll on a sunny weekend afternoon. Even in the rain, with the wind throwing up whitecaps, the seawall is spectacular, and you can run into almost anyone there. If Kathleen had seen them more than once, though, it probably meant they, and she, were locals. “Do you live in the West End?”
“No. But Bill did.”
Hmmm. He lived there but she didn’t. Unless you know someone’s schedule, you have to walk the seawall a lot to run into someone more than occasionally. “So he must have walked the seawall regularly?”
“Yes, I think he did.”
“And you?”
“I… I try to walk it most weekends. And sunny evenings.”
Which mostly meant the summer. I wondered why the question had thrown her. “And where do you live?”
“Kerrisdale.”
Kerrisdale was a twenty-minute drive from the West End, thirty or more in rush hour. A long way to go for a relaxing walk on the seawall, especially when the equally appealing shoreline walks at Jericho, Kits Beach or Granville Island were only ten minutes away from her. So what made the Seawall so attractive to her? Bill, maybe? “Back to Hornby. Did Bill seem to know anyone else there?”
“No. But he is…” she paused, cleared her throat, “was gregarious. He loved people, chatted away to them. It made it hard to tell who he really cared about.”
Strong undercurrents there. Just how over was this relationship of theirs? “Is there anything unusual you noticed about any of them, or their reactions to Bill’s death?”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone who’s hiding something can act out of character, or inappropriately to the situation. Did you notice anything like that?”
She twisted her hands together. “No. No, not really. Everyone was shocked, and upset. One woman had hysterics. But it was an awful time.”
“Do you know the name of the woman who had hysterics?”
“Lois something. But she’s old. Surely you don’t suspect her?”
“At the moment I don’t suspect anyone. I’m gathering facts.”
“Oh. Does this mean that you’ll help me?”
“I’m not convinced yet that you need help, at least not my help. I can give you the name of a good lawyer.”
Kathleen’s face was set. “Andrea told me what you did for her. I need someone like you on my side.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to be on her side. “Why are you so sure you’re a suspect?”
“I think I’m a suspect because… because there were so few of us there. And being an island does limit the pool of suspects.”
Hornby wasn’t exactly an inaccessible island. But she did have a point. Unfortunately for my peace of mind. “Tell me about your relationship with Bill.”
“So you will take the case?”
I wasn’t ready to go that far, but there was something about Kathleen’s situation that intrigued me. Maybe it was because she was so full of contradictions. Maybe it was just that nothing she’d explained about her relationship with Bill made sense. I never could resist a good relationship mystery, as long as it wasn’t my own. And my office wasn’t exactly overflowing with other clients. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
“If you answer all my questions. And after I’ve talked to Andrea again. She’s the one who’s paying my bills.”
“No, I’ll pay them.”
I looked at her. Her chin was thrust forward and there was a glint in her eyes. “Are you sure you can afford me?”
She smiled slightly. “I can afford you.”
“You haven’t even asked what I charge.”
“I can afford you.”
OK, now I was really confused. This woman worked for Andrea as a temp, which ordinarily means money is tight. Yet now she was sounding exactly like my, admittedly few, wealthy clients whenever I dared mention money. Almost offended that I’d feel the need to bring it up. “Fine.”
“So you’ll take my case?”
“I’ll decide after you’ve answered my questions.”
“What did you want to know?”
“Tell me about your relationship with the deceased.” I deliberately didn’t use Bill Rampage’s name. I wanted her off balance.
“Oh. Well, we dated for six months or so.”
“When was this?”
“Two, nearly three years ago.”
“And what does dated mean?”
Her hands tightened in her lap. “Are you asking for steamy details? How often we made love? What his favorite position was?”
I raised an eyebrow. She’d immediately jumped to their sex life. Interesting. Did that indicate a hang-up on her part, or simply the focus of their relationship? “No, I’m asking how often you saw each other. If you lived together.”
Her color rose. “Oh. We saw each other three or four times a week, sometimes more. We weren’t living together, but we spent a lot of time at each other’s places.”
“Overnight?”
“Obviously. If you must ask.”
“I must. And how….”
“He was a terrific lover, if that’s what you were going to ask next.”
Way too much information. “It wasn’t. How did the relationship end?’
She looked down, fiddled with her purse strap. “It was a mutual decision.”
I’ll just bet it was. “Because?”
“We… we just didn’t suit.”
“Too different?”
“Something like that.”
I wished I could ask Bill the same question. I’d really like to hear his answer. “And had you seen him since? I mean before that weekend?”