Blood Runs Cold (25 page)

Ren sat on her bed with a bottle of water beside her. The sun was slowly warming her room. Someone knocked on her door. Quick, relentless knocking – her favorite.

It was the maid. ‘Excuse me? Can I clean your room?’

Shit
. Ren checked her watch. It was nine a.m.
What?
She had slept twice that night, an hour each time. She looked around the room. There were towels draped on the side of the bath, coffee mugs on every surface, chocolate wrappers, empty and half-empty chip bags, shorts, tops, shoes.
Please clean my room
. Then she looked at the bed and its cute patchwork of crime scene and autopsy photographs.

‘No thank you,’ said Ren. ‘Maybe, if you left a tray for me outside and maybe a cloth and some cleaning supplies …’
I would be miserable
.

‘Maybe when I finish the rest of the house.’

Ren stood up and escorted herself into the shower. When she was finished and dressed, she went to tidy the pages on the bed. In the back of one of the files was the work photo of Jean Transom. Little Amber Transom had touches of her aunt in her features. Ren pulled out another photo of Jean – the one Gressett had given her. It was a long shot of Jean at a summer party, half-turned to the camera, laughing and holding a red Frisbee by her side. When she smiled, all you could see was dark, straight, long lashes. Ren stopped.
Oh my God
. She grabbed the photo of Amber and the photo of Jean and looked back and forth between them.
Oh my God
.

The drive felt epic. No speed was fast enough. Ren called Gary to let him know what she had discovered and where she was going. If she was taking definitive action on something. Gary needed blocks of complete information – a thoroughly considered theory that explained why she was doing what she was doing. You could theorize with Gary, but if the pieces weren’t all in place, you did not act on it until you knew more. It made Ren be a better agent. And it drove her nuts.

She was reeling from a wave of hits about Jean’s life. Jean had been murdered and the life she had kept so secret was going to have to be exposed. Ren wished it could be another way.

She pulled up outside the small stuccoed house where Caroline Quaintance lived and walked up the path to the front door.

‘Caroline,’ said Ren, ‘it’s Ren Bryce again.’

There was movement behind the stained glass of the door, but no response.

‘Please let me in,’ said Ren.

Caroline Quaintance opened the door and looked like she was about to try a smile. Ren was looking at her from a new angle. And Caroline knew it.

‘I’m guessing you know why I’m here,’ said Ren.

‘I have no idea,’ said Caroline.

‘Right, OK,’ said Ren. ‘Well, I’m going to have to just say it. I know you are Jean Transom’s daughter.’

Caroline turned away from Ren, but pushed the door open wider behind her as she walked into the living room. Ren followed her.

‘I haven’t known long.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ren.

‘How did you know?’

‘The pathologist discovered Jean had given birth. And when I looked at photos of Jean, when she was relaxed and off-duty, there was something about you and her that connected. Then, when I met her niece, Amber, it was amazing how all three of you have similar expressions.’

‘I read that you found her body,’ said Caroline.
‘I don’t know how to feel.’ She sat slowly into the corner of the sofa.

Suddenly the young woman started crying with an extraordinary, complex grief. Ren stood rigid, holding her breath, fascinated by the intensity of her emotion.

‘I just don’t know,’ said Caroline eventually. ‘She was my mother. It even sounds weird. I didn’t know her. But I liked her. We had a connection. But can I say I loved her?’ She shrugged. ‘Why do I feel I love her, then? I don’t get it.’

Ren put a tentative hand on Caroline’s arm. ‘She was your mother, that’s why. She’s family. And whatever you feel is what you feel – you can’t argue with that.’

‘But you read about people in magazines and they have no feelings for their biological family. They feel nothing. Or they hate them. Or they’re angry.’

‘Everyone reacts differently,’ said Ren.

‘I’m sorry, but I wish I was more like them now. I wish I felt nothing at all. Because this is way too hard. I’ve readjusted my whole life to fit Jean into it. And I had the extra pressure of having to hide it, because of her job and well, I don’t really know what else. I mean – would you get fired for that? I wouldn’t have thought so. And now what do I do?’

‘I know how heartbreaking this is,’ said Ren, ‘but you can feel proud of what you overcame
and for how open you were to having a relationship with her.’

Caroline looked at her. ‘Thank you. Thanks.’

‘Can I ask?’ said Ren. ‘What did she tell you about your father?’
Because whatever it was, it was
bound to be a lie
.

‘Just that he was a football god in high school … she was this pretty blonde …’

Don’t say cheerleader
.

‘… cheerleader,’ Caroline finished.

‘Did you ever think of tracing him?’ said Ren.

Caroline shook her head. ‘I thought – well, he didn’t treat her well. And I don’t want to meet a man who treated my mother badly. Based on what I’ve heard about him abandoning us, I feel that I got most of my personality from her, anyway. So I didn’t think I needed to connect any dots, if you know what I mean.’

Ren nodded.

‘Yes …’ said Caroline.

Jean Transom had told her daughter a trite story of young, beautiful love, even if it had ended badly. Everyone wants to be born of two parents who were in love. It’s an easy story to throw out and an easy one for an abandoned child to swallow.

The only truth you have about your parents, Caroline
Quaintance, is that your father did treat your mother
badly. A twelve-
year-
old mother could only ever have
been treated badly
.

* * *

Ren pulled into the church car park opposite the Firelight Inn and turned off the engine. She sat still, gripping the wheel.
Jean’s body has been found.
I have no excuse
. But it was not a negative. She had hope.

From behind her and to the right, she heard angry footsteps, then they stopped. A man’s voice rose up over the sound of something or someone slamming against a truck or car.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, going to Mountain Sports?’

‘What?’

‘Don’t “what” me … Are you out of your mind?’

‘I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about … but you can stop right there.’

A younger voice and an older voice. She recognized the older voice – Malcolm Wardwell.

‘Honestly, my ass,’ said Malcolm. ‘You know damn well what I’m talking about. That’s why you want me to stop!’

‘This conclusion? You’ve jumped high and wide.’

‘Have I? Really?’ said Malcolm. ‘Have I? I don’t think so … you ungrateful … piece of shit.’

‘Your only son is a piece of shit now?’

Malcolm let rip. ‘What the hell have I done to you? You are a spoilt, ungrateful, terrible, terrible child.’

As the anger exploded and she knew they had
been sucked into their own private world, Ren slowly sat up and turned to watch. She saw it was Malcolm Wardwell’s son.

‘Child?’ he said, stepping forward, laughing.

Malcolm slapped him across the face. His son held his cheek, his eyes wounded and angry. ‘I asked you for nothing,’ he hissed. ‘Ever! Stay out of my business, Dad. Like I want to stay out of yours. Funny how I seem to have made a pact with the devil without being there to sign the papers.’

‘Oh, you sure did make a pact with the devil …’ said Malcolm.

‘For crying out loud, get me the sackcloth, ashes, let me walk around town ringing a bell, let me –’

‘You … disgust me.’ Malcolm Wardwell’s voice was so pained and sincere, his son stopped, mouth open. He looked surprised himself at the tears that flowed. Malcolm Wardwell hesitated, then walked toward him, taking his son in his arms.

Mike Delaney sat in his office, leaning back in his chair to close the blinds behind him. Ren knocked on the door.

‘Come in, take a seat,’ he said.

‘Am I interrupting you?’

‘Absolutely.’ He smiled. ‘I will give you two minutes of my precious time.’

‘Cool,’ said Ren. ‘The strangest thing happened last night and I’d just like to see what you think. I was parking my Jeep in the church car park. The one on French Street, opposite the inn. And I heard the Wardwells – Malcolm and his son.’

‘Jason.’

‘Jason,’ said Ren. ‘It was creepy. They had this intense argument. Malcolm Wardwell was apoplectic. Which was weird in itself because, when I interviewed him, I thought he was a bit of a pussy. Anyway, Malcolm looked like his head was about to blow, he was so angry. Then the son – this
forty-something-year-old guy – starts weeping like a baby, kind of collapses in on himself and the father takes him in his arms. Weird.’

‘That is weird,’ said Mike. He waited.

‘And the argument was just about Jason taking a job in Mountain Sports.’

‘That was it?’

‘I know,’ said Ren. ‘So I was thinking, I mean, obviously the stores are in competition, but … this argument was a little … dramatic.’

‘Tensions were high.’

She nodded.

‘So what do you want me to do?’ said Mike.

‘Who owns Mountain Sports?’

‘A Norwegian couple. Let me check.’ He wheeled his chair to the computer and started typing. After a while, he turned the screen toward her. ‘The owners are …’ He squinted. ‘Maria and Sjurd Nordberg –’

‘Syurd. The js are like ys,’ said Ren.

‘Thankjou.’

‘It doesn’t work the other way round.’

‘How do you know shit like that?’ said Mike.

‘“Norwegian Wood” … my boyfriend in college.’ She winked.

Mike laughed. ‘OK … SYURD Nordberg and his wife have had the store nine months.’

‘Did we talk to them first time round – in the winter?’

He paused. ‘Yes, I think that might have been
me. It’s all coming back. Yes – they had nothing much to say. They were too new – new in town, new to the store.’

‘I might go say hi today,’ said Ren.

‘For …’

‘The holy hell of it.’ She smiled. ‘Was that two minutes?’

‘Yes. Get out.’

Ren stopped by Wardwell’s on her way to Mountain Sports. A red-and-yellow banner the length of Wardwell’s window read
Twenty-fifth
Anniversary Sale: 25% Off
. Ren hovered in front of it. A mother and three blonde identicoiffed daughters bumped past her, confident that high hair, Fake Bake and miniskirts worked well across a forty-year age spread. Ren frowned after them, then walked down the steps into the store.

The sale rails were overloaded and pushed against the wall, leaving space at the center for a stack of cartons. Malcolm Wardwell kneeled beside them with a box cutter, slicing through the brown tape that sealed them. He glanced up at Ren and looked back down again.

‘I would like to apologize,’ said Ren. ‘For that last time.’

Mr Wardwell leaned into the open carton and pulled out a pile of vacuum-packed parkas. He stopped and looked up at her.

‘It wasn’t professional,’ said Ren. She gestured to him. ‘Please, don’t let me interrupt you.’

‘I haven’t much help in the mornings,’ he said, standing up, flattening the empty carton and leaning it against the window. He kneeled back down and dragged another one toward him. ‘It’s me versus the slopes for most of the kids who work here.’

Ren watched in silence as Wardwell emptied and folded the next carton.

‘So,’ she said, ‘congratulations on your twenty-five years.’

He nodded. ‘Well, it’s more like twenty-nine, but I don’t include the time it took to set it up. Finding the money, getting around legal stuff. It was a tough time. Jason was on his last vacation before college, we had to readjust our finances. You always have to readjust your finances in this game.’

‘What was here before?’ said Ren.

‘Right before? I’m not sure. Historically? It was a saloon. Full of hurdy girls and rowdy miners.’ He smiled. ‘It was a shell when we got it; we were able to hang on to the original floor, restore that and some of the other timberwork.’ He spoke as if he was telling too much to someone he feared didn’t care.

‘Really?’

‘For whatever use it was. It cost a lot of money and now, because we always need to make so
much money, the floors are usually covered in rails and the walls are covered with T-shirts and sweatshirts and jackets …’

Ren looked down at the floor. It was mosaic-tiled in pretty shades of gold, green and red. ‘Let me help you,’ she said, pushing some of the boxes out of the way and opening up the floor. ‘That really is beautiful,’ she said.

He nodded.

‘Where’s your son today? said Ren.

‘He’ll be along.’

‘OK.’

He looked up at her.

‘I guess I should get going …’ she said.

‘Thanks for stopping by.’

Mountain Sports was between a beauty salon and a jeweler on the mezzanine level of a group of stores. It was open and empty.

‘Hello?’ said Ren, walking in.

‘I’m out back,’ shouted Maria. ‘If you need any help, let me know.’

Ren walked to the back door and out on to the balcony. ‘Maria Nordberg?’

‘Yes,’ she said, standing up, blowing a stream of smoke away from Ren. She was in her fifties, freckled and blonde with her hair tied up under a faded floral scarf. ‘I brave the heat for my cigarette.’ She stubbed it out in a pot of sand. From the next-door basement garden, a pre-school
teacher stared up as she rubbed sun block on to tiny noses.

Maria rolled her eyes at Ren. ‘As if my one cigarette a day …’ She shook her head.

‘Some people …’ said Ren. She looked out over the Blue River to the mountains where the ski trails wound down smooth and green. The terrace below was filled with people sitting under red umbrellas. ‘What a beautiful day.’

‘I love it here.’

‘Me too. But, sadly, I’m here for work.’ She smiled and showed her badge.

Maria smiled back, but it was different.

And then I go and spoil it all
… ‘I’m Ren Bryce with the FBI. I’m looking into the death of Agent Jean Transom.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Maria. ‘I’m sorry about your colleague. It must have been a relief to find her remains.’ Her accent was that happy, sing-song Norwegian that made Ren think of her old boyfriend – he could be saying, ‘I’m depressed and I want to kill myself’ in Norwegian and it would sound like he was telling you he was in a bath of coke with four supermodels.

‘Thank you,’ said Ren. ‘I know you’ve already spoken to the Undersheriff about what you saw – or didn’t see – back in January, so that’s fine, I’ve re-read that. I was wondering, did you have any other staff members around that time, anyone casual? I don’t see anything in the notes. Or
anyone that may have seen anything recently. Because the body has been … found. And we need to make sure …’

‘No,’ said Maria. ‘Back when my husband and I opened this place, we couldn’t really afford to hire anyone.’

‘Right,’ said Ren. ‘It’s always hard starting out. And how has it been working out for you?’

‘Very good, very good. There are so many visitors to Breckenridge. We are very lucky. And we are taking someone new on.’

‘I’m sure you can have your pick of college kids around here.’

She smiled. ‘We’ve gone with someone a little more experienced.’

‘From here?’ said Ren.

‘From Wardwell’s,’ said Maria, with a twinkle in her eye, a sense of validation. ‘The son.’

‘Ah, he’s defecting,’ said Ren, smiling.

Maria smiled back. ‘Sjurd and I
were
wondering …’

‘Maybe he just wanted a change of scenery,’ said Ren. She looked again through the back door and out over the mountains. ‘Beautiful,’ she said.

Maria nodded.

‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘I will let you get back to your work. Here’s my card. And please do call me if you think of anything.’