Hiding in Plain Sight (18 page)

“If you recall, the water stain was almost exactly where I'm standing, just where it would have dripped if it had started out as ice on the desk, slowly melting as the hours ticked by. The block of ice was arranged or shaped so that it would tip as it melted.”

“But why?” James asked.

“Because it was supporting the statue of the wolf. When the ice had melted enough, the weight of the statue sitting on it made it tip — as it must have been designed to do. Once that happened, the statue fell forward. It fell, in fact, against the window, breaking it out from the inside, and allowing entry
from the out-side, into a locked room
. You can see that the desk is high enough that the statue would have toppled against the window, but too low for it to have fallen through to the outside.

“Then, it only took a matter of minutes for Darla, who would have been nearby waiting, to climb up and inside, get the disks, get rid of the rest of the ice — probably by tossing it out the window — and put the wolf statue back in place before climbing back out the window and getting away.”

“You're crazy,” Darla said. Her voice sounded squeezed.

“Hold it,” Mrs. Thompson said before I could answer. “Aren't you forgetting that Darla doesn't have the combination to the safe? She
couldn't
have gotten the disks out of there.”

“Besides, if someone did get in the way you described, what makes you so sure it was Darla?” Angi added. “Any one of us could have done that.”

“That's right!” Darla said. Her eyes flashed at me.

“I know it was Darla because of the fern,” I said, “and she
did
have the combination to the safe, also because of the fern.”

“What? The
plant
?”

“Yes. Darla had brought a fern in, supposedly to brighten the place up, but it wasn't for that reason at all. The truth is, she had a small camcorder hidden in the bushy fronds, its lens trained on the safe. She set it to record whenever she knew Mrs. Thompson would be opening the safe, and in this way she managed to get the combination. It probably took a while, more than one try for sure, but eventually she had it.”

“Preposterous!” Darla said. Her face had gone stiff and pale.

“That's why she kept insisting the fern stay in that spot!” Debbie cried.

“That's exactly why. When you brought in a second plant and moved the fern, she had to put it back because it had been carefully positioned to film the safe. Even though you were absolutely right — the fern shouldn't have been in direct sunlight, while your plant needed it.”

“And my spider plant almost died because it didn't get enough sun,” Debbie said indignantly. Personally, I thought there were bigger issues to worry about than the well-being of her plant.

“If you think back,” I said to Debbie, “maybe you can remember if Darla made any kind of issue over you touching her plant.”

“She
did
,” Debbie said, wide-eyed now. “She told me I had no business touching her property and went on about it unbelievably. I thought it was just an act she was putting on to make sure I didn't move it again.”

“This is insane,” Darla said, almost spitting. She pushed her chair back and stood. “I don't have to stay here and listen to any more of this.”

“I just can't believe this.” Mrs. Thompson sat very still, looking at no one. “Why would she do it?”

“My guess is that it's because she always resented you for taking what she thought of as her job,” I said. “You mentioned once that she'd worked here longer than you, and yet when the top job came up, it went to you. I don't suppose that made her happy. The incident a while back, with James's report disappearing into your briefcase — that was most likely her, too, trying to make you look bad.”

“Even if any of this was true,” Darla snorted, “which it is
not
, there'd be no way to prove it.”

“Oh, I think there is,” I said, grasping now. I'd hoped she would have caved in to the pressure by that point. “I believe that when the police check they'll find your fingerprints on the bottom of the wolf statue, because you'd have had to lift it from underneath to move it.”

Darla laughed, although she couldn't quite hide the fact that she was shaken. “What nonsense,” she said, with a fairly decent show of bravado. “Even if my fingerprints were on the bottom of a statue, that wouldn't mean anything. I work here. This has all been most entertaining, but I'm sure we all have better things to do than listen to the ramblings of a teenager with an overactive imagination.”

“Well,” Officer Doucet said quietly, “it happens that there's more.”

You could have heard a pin drop in there, if it wasn't carpeted, that is.

“You see, Miss Belgarden called me with her theory yesterday, and I thought there was enough to it that I did a little investigating of my own today before coming here.”

He held up a pink piece of paper, though we could-n't see what was on it. Darla started slightly but pulled herself together as he continued.

“This is a receipt from Little River Rent-Alls,” he said, “for an extension ladder rented to one Darla Rhule, the day before the robbery. It was returned the day after.”

“So what!” Darla almost spat. “I needed the ladder because there was a bird trapped in my chimney.”

Officer Doucet actually smiled at that. “Now, that would be a coincidence. In fact, it would be one of many that happened around the time of the robbery.
Funny thing is, when you get one coincidence after another like that, you can usually get a judge to sign a search warrant.”

The colour drained from Darla's face.

“And that's exactly what happened,” Officer Doucet said. “My fellow officers conducted a search of your home just a few hours ago, and what do you think they found?”

Darla stood unsteadily. She seemed poised to run but unable to move, like those dreams you have where you're trying so hard to run but everything goes into slow motion and you barely move. She stayed like that while Officer Doucet told us how they'd found the missing software
and
the camcorder complete with the incriminating tape still inside it.

Darla began to fall apart as he spoke. Her lips started to tremble first, and then her whole body shook, like something had chilled her clean through to the bone. When she spoke, it was like something from a movie.

“It should have been
my
job,” she said, her voice pathetic and small, like a child's. “I worked hard and I deserved it. Marion
took
it from me.”

She looked around then, her eyes pleading, darting from face to face, asking for understanding, but each person in the room, in turn, looked down or away, unable to bear the sad sight.

Officer Doucet stepped forward then, which seemed to finally give her the impetus to move. She turned and ran, racing through the door and down the hall. He caught up with her just outside the main door.

We heard her muffled voice say something, and then she began to cry. Then Joey stood, moved swiftly to the conference room door, and closed it, blocking out the pitiable sound.

I
didn't go back to NUTEC, though Mrs. Thompson said I could work there for the rest of the summer if I wanted to. I felt kind of funny being around every-one there after all that had happened. It wasn't that I thought they might treat me differently so much as I felt I'd lied to them all by being there under sort of false pretences.

On top of that, I felt kind of tainted, like I'd been involved in something sordid, even though none of it had been my fault. I'd seen a perfectly normal woman show a side that was so mean and ugly it was hard to believe it was the same person.

I'll tell you something else. Days later I still couldn't get the image of Darla Rhule out of my head. She haunted me, cringing and begging, not for forgiveness but for understanding. I think that was the worst part
for me — that she felt so totally justified in what she'd done that she actually expected others to agree with her.

It's hard to imagine someone living the way she must have, with envy and resentment festering and burning in her for years until she allowed it to drive her to such lengths. There she was, working with Mrs. Thompson every day, smiling in her face and all the time hating her so much that she was willing to frame her and see her go to jail.

It might have been easier to understand if she'd done it in desperation, or even for money or prestige, but her reasons were sicker and more twisted than that. She yearned for the job she believed should have been hers, but more than that she wanted to destroy another human being.

Envy.

Resentment.

The charges against Mrs. Thompson were dropped and she returned to work early, since no one else had been trained to fill in for her. Ironically, her employers gave her a raise, probably feeling guilty for not suppor-ting her during the whole mess.

Betts told me she thinks she's going to appreciate her mom more from now on, but I've noticed that this kind of resolution tends to fade pretty fast. Still, I think the whole thing brought them a bit closer together, so some good came from it.

I was at the hospital this afternoon, and I got thinking about how Mr. Stanley had played a role in solving the mystery without even knowing he'd done it. If he hadn't fallen and broken his hip, I'd never have been going there to see him. I wouldn't have been getting him fresh ice water to replace what had melted. That was what set off a chain reaction in my brain and brought me to the place where I realized what the water stain on the carpet really meant.

I also wouldn't have Ernie — the cat named for five other Ernies, who does weird things and almost makes my mom admit she likes him. Almost.

Anyway, here I am, sitting out on my front step, watching the cars go by. It's a warm summer evening with just enough breeze for comfort, but from the smell in the air, a shower isn't far behind. The clouds have been full and threatening for a couple of days now, but they just swell and then seem to shrink back down again.

It's coming, though, a nice warm rain that will wash the earth and give it that sweet scent that reminds me so much of spring. It's a clean, innocent smell, and after what I've seen this summer, I could use it.

I hope it holds off a little longer, though — maybe an hour or two, because by then I'll have seen the car I'm watching for, and Greg will get out of it and come down the walk to where I'm sitting.

I'm guessing that we'll smile at each other like idiots, and then he'll come inside and say hello to my parents and probably be talked into a snack of some sort — and the whole world will be back to normal.

W
riting continues to be a labour of love for me, and I am truly indebted to those whose encouragement and support make it possible. For these and so many other things, I thank:

My husband, partner, and best friend, Brent.

My children, Anthony and Pamela; my parents, Bob and Pauline Russell; my brothers, Danny and Andrew, and their respective partners, Gail and Shelley; and my granddaughter, Emilee. My “other” family: Ron and Phoebe Sherrard, Ron Sherrard and Dr. Kiran Pure, Bruce and Roxanne Mullin, and Karen Sherrard.

Friends: Janet Aube, Jimmy Allain, Karen Arseneault, Karen Donovan, Angie Garofolo, John Hambrook, Sandra Henderson, David Jardine, Alf Lower, Mary Matchett, Johnnye Montgomery, Marsha Skrypuch, Linda Stevens, and Bonnie Thompson.

From the Glenelg Board: Anna MacIntosh, Harold Parlee, Pamela-Beers Sturgeon, Elizabeth Bowes, Joan Jardine, Ray Doucet, Melanie MacAulay, David Saunders, Valerie Krezel, and Heather Dunn.

Individuals who have recently offered assistance, rendered exceptional service, or committed acts of kind-ness: Pam Despres, Donna Guy, Eldena Gorman, Jim Hennessy, Joy Liddy, Ed Snider, and Molly Trueman.

A few of the reviewers who have clearly connected with stories and characters, and whose comments and criticisms have been a source of help and encouragement: Lisa Doucet, Wendy Kitts, Denise Moore, Carole Morris, Joanne Peters, and twelve-year-old Andrea Nelson.

At The Dundurn Group: Kirk Howard, Publisher, as well as very special thanks to my awesome editor, Barry Jowett (who is also the
real
Ernie's human), the ever-smiling sales and marketing coordinator, Anne Choi, designer extraordinaire, Jennifer Scott, and the fabulous assistant editor, Jennifer Gallant. Working with each of them is a joy.

Teenagers! Hearing from you is the
best
part of writing, and I love getting your letters and emails. So, thanks to: Kayla Church, Erica Cronkhite, Chelsea Derry, Manreet Dhandwar, Aman Dhillon, Marc André d'Italien, Reagan Elly, Kristen Godel, Melanie Gibbs, Chloë Hill, Therese Jodoin, Kaley Kotnik, Raymond LeBlanc, Emily LeMesurier, Cameron Machado,
Shannon Martin, Jackie Mathers, Alexis Muscat, Jessica Neumann, Brooke Palahnuk, Khizer Pervez, Jennifer Pulsifer, Monica Richard, Lisa Svoboda, Fiona To, Meryl Toudjian, Brian Wilcox, and Megan Wrixon.

Regretfully, a recent loss of files prevents me from acknowledging many others who have written, but I truly appreciated hearing from each and every young person who took the time to write.

You are on these pages and they belong to you.