A Nose for Death Read online

  “So Dr. Rimmer applied pressure?” asked Joan.

  “Oh no, never. The doc didn’t expect Roger to get special treatment. Didn’t want it either, if you ask me. That’s just how it is here.”

  “What was Roger doing at the seniors home?”

  Gabe shrugged. “He wouldn’t say.”

  As they sat in weighted silence, the waitress came to their table. Young, hip, and svelte, she could have been serving in any downtown Vancouver restaurant. This pleased Joan. She was developing an odd sense of pride in her old hometown.

  “Hey there, Gabe. Someone named Hazel left a message for you. She can’t make it for dinner. She said something’s come up.”

  As the young woman took their orders, Joan realized that she was pleased that Hazel wouldn’t be joining them. Every moment alone with Gabe felt delicious, like stolen time.

  They ate their dinners in easy companionship. Gabe fed her a sample bite of his dinner and smiled as she confidently identified the tastes. His beef tenderloin was seasoned with a delicate mix of ground peppercorn, black, green, and red, but the sauce had been prepared with an artificial beef base added to the fine masala, which to her seemed a culinary crime. He parted his lips to taste her mango salsa, and she felt a sensual thrill run up her back and into her breasts as she slid her fork into his mouth. She could hardly get the words out to describe how the salt of sun-dried tomatoes and the bite of the fresh cilantro combined in perfect harmony with the ripe fruit.

  By the time dessert arrived, they were laughing happily at their teenaged antics and sharing anecdotes about what had happened in the intervening years. Although both told stories of funny and horrific dating disasters, neither spoke of their spouses. Before coffee arrived, Joan saw that Gabe was glancing at his watch every few minutes. Their time was coming to a close.

  Gabe sat up straighter and his voice became more formal as the conversation turned to work. He talked about the many interviews he still needed to do and the paperwork that would keep him up until late. When he tried to wrestle the bill from her, insisting that she was on his turf, she argued that Madden belonged to both of them.

  She’d spent so many years feeling as though she were faking it, as though luck had been the essential element in her success, whether at university in the chemistry faculty “pretending” to be a scientist or at work posing as a team leader. During the past thirty years her memory had filled with grey clouds when her thoughts turned to Madden. But now she knew that this town, with Gabe and Hazel, was the last place that she’d really felt she belonged.

  She was disappointed when he stood up to leave. A corner of her mouth turned up in a half-smile that pleaded “don’t go.”

  He bent down. Instead of repeating the brotherly kiss on her cheek, this time he touched his lips to hers and held them there for the briefest moment.

  “See ya’,” he whispered in her ear before standing.

  As he walked out she was sorry that she’d driven downtown. If she’d begged a lift it would have given her an excuse to be alone with Gabe in his truck, driving down Main street at his side, parking at the Twin Pines . . .

  God, she laughed to herself. I really am an emotionally stunted juvenile.

  The young waitress cleared Gabe’s coffee cup with a clatter and Joan noticed her abrupt critical glance. The bottom dropped out of her stomach. So this is how it happens. She’d trespassed into illicit territory. This could mess things up big time, for Gabe’s reputation, for the investigation. She didn’t understand what was behind his public show of affection, but next time she’d control herself.

  CHAPTER NINE

  GABE PARKED HIS SUBURBAN BETWEEN TWO RCMP cruisers in the Twin Pines parking lot. The crime scene squad was busy at work. It was hard to believe that only twenty-four hours earlier Roger had been prancing across the stage under a pulsating light show. Although it was almost eight o’clock on Saturday evening, it was still broad daylight. At this time of year, a month before summer solstice, it wouldn’t get dark until almost eleven. The long, hot summer evenings were something Gabe had missed during the years that he’d lived farther south, and the barely dark night skies would always bind him to this place.

  Pulling on a pair of translucent latex gloves, he walked toward Roger’s cabin and considered how Roger’s choices had been responsible for determining this fate. The singer had known that the reunion committee was trying to save money, but he’d insisted they put him up at the Twin Pines so he wouldn’t be forced to stay with his parents. Undoubtedly, he’d hoped to score — women, grass, coke, something — and his parents had laid down the law years before. Although Mrs. Rimmer doted on him, the doctor was hard as nails. Making up for past leniency, Gabe figured. At any rate, if Roger had been in bed up on the hill on Friday night, he’d probably still be alive.

  Gabe stepped over the threshold and surveyed the room. A team member, wearing white coveralls, knelt on the floor, scraping up one of many blood samples. On the other side of the bed, Corporal Pam McFarlane was slowly tracking a light over the carpet, checking for blood splatter. She was a scrawny little thing who looked as though she should still be in high school, but she was the most thorough and dedicated cop he had, destined to climb the ladder quickly if RCMP politics didn’t fail her. Gabe went to the bedside table where two glasses sat undisturbed. The first, a typical motel waterglass, held a bridge of four front teeth. Obviously Roger wasn’t expecting company when his killer arrived. It ruled out a date gone bad.

  “McFarlane,” he said, “could you please make sure these get checked out before the funeral. Can’t let his last appearance be without his famous smile.”

  She nodded solemnly as she took the glass. “When will that be, Gabe?”

  He sighed. They both knew the answer depended upon their investigation. “Let’s hope it’s soon, Corporal.”

  She nodded and went back to her task.

  Gabe lifted the second glass with his gloved hand. It was a highball tumbler from the lounge. As he waved it under his nose, he recognized aged single-malt scotch. Roger would have been drinking the best since the tab was on the Grad Committee. On the dresser, several items were secured in labelled plastic bags laid out in tidy rows. One item in particular caught his eye. He raised the bag to examine the contents. Inside was an eight-by-ten colour print that had been ripped down the middle then taped back together. Holding it to the overhead light, he recognized the faces. It was a group photograph taken on the afternoon of their high school grad, thirty years before.

  The graduation ceremony had been held in early May. After certificates had been handed out, a formal prom had allowed parents either to revel in the glow of their bright lights or to sigh with relief that barely literate offspring had the paper to prove they’d made it through twelve years, or more, of public school. The evening after-party belonged to the kids and was a tribute to debauchery. Designated drivers and dry grads wouldn’t be introduced in Madden for another ten years. Seat belts hadn’t been mandatory and were usually ignored. Parents waited at home in fear. They listened for the sound of sirens, and were thrilled when drunken sons and vomiting daughters staggered through the door. This photograph, though, was taken at the beginning of it all. Fresh-faced girls, long-haired boys, all in their best outfits, posing for the camera, daring the world to come at them.

  Gabe shook his head at the tall beanpole in the back row, pimples glowing orange in the faded colour of the old print. He felt sorry for the awkward youth he’d been. Joan, of course, was absent. There, in a tall, stiff shirt collar, head slightly cocked, was Roger, the best looking of the bunch. With curls hanging in golden ringlets to his chin, he had a feminine quality that had always appealed to the girls. Had he tried to destroy the photograph or had it ripped by accident?

  Joan left her car on Main Street and walked the few blocks to the Couch for Mr. Fowler’s games night. It was a beautiful evening. The rain shower earlier had washed the sand and salt from the streets. Ancient, twisted lilac trees crowded
the stone steps leading to the front door of the old brick building. The bold scent of the white and mauve blossoms announced that the valley was on the brink of summer.

  As soon as Joan entered the hallway, she saw that the interior of the building had been entirely renovated. It barely resembled the school where she had lived out long days for almost three years. Vibrant murals covering the halls from floor to ceiling had replaced institutional pink and green paint. Entire walls had been knocked out, resulting in an open lounge in the middle of the building. One door was propped open and she was drawn to the sound of the party. Her first impression was that she was entering a teepee. Three classrooms had been combined to create a large, informal space that was much larger than it appeared from the outside. Hanging lights with colorful paper shades gave the impression of a lower ceiling and made the room warm and intimate.

  Mr. Fowler appeared to be in his element. He roamed the room with his glasses pulled down on his nose, chattering away to his guests, providing instructions and advice. There were four card tables set up around the room and a game of chess was in session on a coffee table over by a worn couch. Rank guitarist Rudy Weiss and his wife Monica were playing Monopoly with two other couples at one table. Undoubtedly it wasn’t what they had imagined themselves doing on this Saturday night, but they probably welcomed the chance to get out of their hotel room. Their drive home to Prince George would be long and monotonous. Although the police couldn’t officially hold anyone, most alumni were staying out of courtesy, or curiosity. There were a couple of others she vaguely recognized, people who as kids had been bussed in from farms and smaller towns to attend high school.

  When Mr. Fowler caught sight of Joan, he came over, hooked his arm into hers, and led her to a table occupied by Daphne, Candy, and the stern-looking woman with salt-and-pepper hair who had intimidated Joan at the registration desk the night before.

  The woman was introduced as Tracey. She had moved into town at the beginning of grade twelve so their paths had hardly, if ever, crossed. Ed Fowler happily crowded in with the four women.

  The only game they all knew was blackjack. Joan wasn’t much of a card player, and was relieved: blackjack was something she could bail out of easily. She planned on staying no more than fifteen or twenty minutes. It had been a long and stressful day and she was determined to get a good night’s sleep.

  Once the cards were dealt, Candy pointed out some of their former classmates in the room. Sarah Markle, whom Ray had dumped for Marlena, was seated with her handsome husband who looked several years older than his wife. Sarah was round, stylish, and comfortable looking. Candy whispered that they were both in the Foreign Service and spent a lot of time in Paris.

  A man who looked too old to have been in their class made a beeline for Joan.

  “Did ya’ miss me?” The man pointed a finger like a gun. When he smiled, a row of too-bright teeth glistened.

  Joan smiled awkwardly.

  “Oh, c’mon Joan. It’s me!” He opened his arms as though giving her a better look at his forty-eight inch chest squeezed into a sweater two sizes too small would trigger her memory. All it did was send a wave of Hugo Boss cologne directly up her nose.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered, holding back a sneeze and hoping she’d be rescued by someone at the table. She looked at Candy, but the blond card shark was concentrating on her hand.

  “A boo, boppa-boo, boppa-boo?”

  “I beg your pardon?” His scat reference meant nothing to her.

  He repeated “A boo, boppa-boo, boppa-boo, boppa boo,” this time slapping his legs to keep time. When her helpless expression didn’t change, he finally introduced himself. “C’mon, Joan. It’s Gerald. Gerald Gillespie.”

  “Gerry?” This man couldn’t be the quiet boy who sat behind her all through grades 7 and 8. They exchanged a few words then he went back to his seat, despondent that she hadn’t recognized him. For a fleeting moment Joan envied Daphne. At least she had an excuse.

  Three hours later Joan watched Candy draw another stack of chips toward herself. Every time she won, she pumped her fist up and down hissing “yes” with tremendous satisfaction. Although they were only playing for quarters, Joan figured Candy would soon be able to put that grandson of hers through college. It was time, the women decided, to call it a night. Daphne had already tried to escape twice, pointing out that she’d left Peg all alone up at her house, but Ed Fowler had been eager for them to stay. Everyone else had cleared out half-an-hour earlier.

  “I derive immense pleasure from having you girls here.” He took Daphne’s hand on one side of him then reached for Joan’s on the other. “It’s hard to keep tabs on you all from a distance. Though with the internet it’s much easier than it once was.” He looked at them soulfully. “I know it hasn’t always been easy for you girls.”

  Daphne looked as awkward as Joan felt. She pulled her hand from his. “I should really get back to Peg’s. What kind of house guest am I if I come tromping in at midnight? Especially when she’s not feeling so hot.”

  Mr. Fowler jumped right in. “Let me give you a lift.”

  Daphne smiled awkwardly. Joan tried to rescue her by offering to be her chauffeur, but Mr. Fowler was adamant.

  “But I go right by there,” he insisted.

  Joan watched as a weary Daphne followed Ed Fowler to his car.

  Raindrops the size of jelly beans splattered Joan’s windshield and slid down the side windows in dense rivulets, distorting the outside world. When she parked her car at the Twin Pines a young police constable was strolling the grounds, huddled into his dark slicker. So, she wasn’t the only one worried about a killer lurking behind the trees. Glancing in the direction of the swollen river, she noticed that the lights were still on inside Roger’s cabin. She didn’t envy whoever was left to guard that place on such a bone-chilling night. After securing the door lock, the deadbolt, and the chain, she quickly changed into her nightgown, wrapped herself in her pashmina shawl, and slipped under the covers. She regretted not packing her regular camping pajamas, a pair of adult-sized sleepers with feet and a trap door. The exhaustion she had felt while driving deserted her. She lay stiff as an ice cube waiting for the sheets to warm, conscious of the humming refrigerator, distant traffic, and the rushing river. She listened for the comforting crunch of boots on gravel as the young policeman patrolled and was almost asleep when she realized that his steps hadn’t returned to her end of the complex for some time. Had it been seconds? Minutes? An hour? While she lay with her ears tuned to every sound, she heard footsteps again, but this time quieter, as though someone didn’t want to be heard. And heavier. This wasn’t some lightweight boy in uniform. Joan tried to will the footsteps away, but instead they moved closer and closer. A soft, slow rapping at the door had her choked with fear. She pulled the covers to her ears, afraid that the slightest creaking of the bed would expose her presence. Why her door again? Last night it had been Roger and that hadn’t ended well, at least for him. A whisper broke the silence.

  “Joan.” A single syllable, drowned out by rain and the rushing river. It wasn’t until the second “Joan” that she bounded out of bed, unfastened the three locks, and threw the door open to Gabe. He glanced carefully back into the yard before slipping into the room. He pulled the door closed behind him.

  Furious, Joan slapped his chest. “You scared the b’Jesus out of me.”

  Besides a glint of light through the crack in the curtains, the room was dark and warm. She could make out the curve of Gabe’s nose and the broad outline of his shoulders, but she couldn’t read his expression.

  “Do you want me to go?” he asked.

  She was silent. Every neuron of logic screamed “Get out.” In a town that had eyes and ears everywhere, just yards from the spot where Roger was murdered, was the last place they should meet. His presence, though, made her skin tingle.

  He gazed down the length of her body, then looked back into her eyes, reached out and pulled her toward him.

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nbsp; She heard his moan as he folded his arms around her, pressing his body into hers. His coat smelled of wet wool tinged with old coffee. He was soaking wet and she was shivering. When she pulled away, he tugged the damp nightgown over her head. At that moment she was thankful that she hadn’t been wearing the sleepers with feet that made her look like a gigantic beige rabbit.

  Although network television and Cosmo would have the world believe that woman over forty are all prowling for younger men, most of those women know that with the older lover comes sensitivity, technique, and a sense of humour. Besides, they share cultural references. They know that Paul McCartney was with a band before Wings.

  Gabe held her beneath the covers and she felt the chill leave her toes. He warmed his hands before cupping her breasts, and as her eyes adjusted to the silvery light, he kissed each nipple. He moved down her body with his kisses, looking up every so often to check her reaction. She could only think, “I could eat him alive, every morsel of him, and not leave a trace.” It had been a long time since she had been with anyone besides Mort. How different Gabe’s body felt. She didn’t want to let go of his buttocks. The way the muscles tightened with his movement. As she explored his body further, she burst out with a playful laugh.

  “What?” asked Gabe.

  “I expected you to lean to the left. Ah.”

  His gentle hands had found her sweetest spot. He rolled on top of her and their bodies moved in slow unison. Arousal ran through her like an electric current. Her hips moved involuntarily, cuing him to quicken his pace. She forced him onto his back and rolled on top of him, forgetting the modesty of her half-century-old body as she arched her back to invite him in further. If sex had ever been this good with Mort, it had been long, long ago in another galaxy.