The Dead Letter (7 page)

18.

Then there was that second message on her answering machine. Anne had ignored it. She tried to forget it, and she wished she could, but it came back again and again like a dull toothache.

The message had come from Gwen Fowler, Dit's fiancée.

With any luck,
Anne thought as she dialled the phone,
she won't pick up.
Hopefully, we can play phone tag until she gets bored or catches on that I'd rather not talk with her…or do anything else.

Gwen answered on the second ring. “Anne. Hi. I'm so pleased you were able to call back. Dit said that you were usually pretty busy in the morning, but you usually only had ‘this-and-that' to fill your afternoons.”

“That was Dit's idea of a joke.”

“Oh,” said Gwen, somewhat surprised and embarrassed. “I didn't know. Sometimes his humour is drier than I'm used to.”

“Like day-old toast,” said Anne, “and, on special occasions, it comes mummified.”

Gwen laughed. Her voice had a clear, musical quality to it.

“What can I do for you?” asked Anne.

“I had hoped that we could do something fun…get to know each other better…talk a bit…shop maybe.”

“Gwen, I'm really the wrong one to wander around and hunt for bargains with, and I've got a bit more ‘this-and-that' to handle than I would like right now.”

“Just talk then?” Gwen's voice quavered, and Anne sensed a neediness in her tone. Perhaps it was disappointment.

“You don't want to drive all the way across town just to talk, do you?”

“I'm not across town. I'm downstairs, actually.”

“Downstairs?” asked Anne.

“At The Blue Peter. I just finished lunch. Do you mind?”

Anne had run out of stock excuses to avoid Gwen, and to become blunt would have been rude. Besides, something in Gwen's manner dissuaded Anne from turning her down.

“Come up, then,” she said.

Anne scarcely had hung up the phone before she heard footsteps on the stairs. The door to the outer office squeaked. Gwen helloed from the reception area, and Anne called her in.

Gwen seemed to fill the room when she swept into it. She stood taller than Anne had remembered her at The Blue Peter. She wore dark blue jeans and a violet blouse. She set a small purse and a shopping bag on a coffee table and strode to the window behind Anne's desk. She looked out over Victoria Row. The sun had peeked out and dried the cobbled street. It lit up the autumn colours of the trees. Across the street, the stone walls of the Confederation Centre glimmered.

“What a wonderful spot,” she said.

“I like it a lot,” said Anne.

Gwen turned around. Her eyes fell on Anne and then to her desk, covered with untidy piles of papers and photos and reports. “I guess I did come at a bad time, didn't I?”

“Well, I can't say that there's ever a perfect time, but this is as good as it gets.”

“Dit speaks of you often. He likes you. It sounds strange, I know, but it's almost as if I know you.”

“I'd like to have been a fly on the wall when those conversations took place.”

“It was all quite complimentary,” said Gwen.

“Are you sure? Even after every syllable of irony has been scrubbed out of it?”

“No guarantees, but it seemed so.”

“Now
I'm
astonished,” said Anne.

“I think I detect some irony now, though.”

“You've got a good ear. Maybe you and Dit are a match.”

“Did you have doubts?”

Anne shrugged and leaned back in her chair. “I always have doubts. That's how I make a living. Everybody has something to lie about, something to hide. Good guys, bad guys…clients, too.”

“That seems…cynical,” said Gwen.

“I don't let it get to me.”

“What about you?” asked Gwen. “What do you lie about?”

“I never lie,” said Anne seriously. A hint of smile twitched the
corners of her mouth.

“Neither do I,” Gwen added, and winked. “So how did you get
involved in this business?”

“Necessity. My uncle, who started the business, died. I had a child to support. A door opened, and I stepped through it.”

“That's a pretty big step. I'd be terrified.”

“You don't strike me as the type who becomes terrified very easily.”

“Everyone has fears…and maybe that's why they hide things.”

“Perhaps. It was a bit different for me. I had had a bit of experience before I came to Charlottetown. Four years as insurance investigator for an Ottawa company.”

“Did you enjoy that?”

“I did, but one of my managers developed a chronic case of roaming hands. I taught him some manners, and he fired me. A while after that adventure, Uncle Billy offered me a job down here.”

“But this must have been quite different from insurance investigation.”

“The cases are different, but the thinking is similar. Billy showed me how to work cases and stay safe. I think he was actually grooming me for the job, though I didn't realize it at the time.”

“What are you working on now, if you don't mind my asking?” Gwen motioned toward the papers on Anne's desk.

“It's a police case file…about a murder ten or eleven years ago. It may be connected to another death around the same time. I've been hired to see if there's a connection.”

“That's fascinating. Really. Can you talk about it?”

“Most of it's no secret. It's a closed case,” said Anne. Then she went on to describe the murder of Simone Villier in her Stratford office building, the police investigation that followed, and the subsequent arrest, conviction, and twenty-year sentence of John Dawson.

Gwen leaned forward attentively in her chair as Anne recounted what she had learned about the murder. Then Anne reached into her desk and retrieved a separate file folder from which she took out Carolyn Jollimore's last letter. As she read it, Gwen's mouth opened in wonder.

“Oh my god,” she said. “What will you do now?”

“A lot of my work is just mind-numbing stuff. I have a pretty thorough idea of how this investigation developed. Next step is crossing t's and dotting i's. Inside the front cover is an index of contents. I like to check that everything is there that should be and that the documents match the inventory…interviews have pages numbered sequentially…and that nothing is missing.”

“Can I help?” asked Gwen.

Anne handed Gwen the index sheet. “Okay, dig in. You read out each item on the list. I'll check and sort.”

It took forty minutes to verify the completeness of the case file. It would have taken less if Anne hadn't paused the process to scrutinize three of the documents. Two were notable curiosities: Schaeffer's interview of Constable MacFarlane and MacFarlane's arrest report of Dawson. The third document, one that sent a slight chill up her spine, was Constable Best's interview of Carolyn Jollimore. She read it quickly without comment or change of expression and moved on.

“Everything is there,” said Anne. She leaned back in her chair and centred the neatly stacked case file on her desk.

“That was fun,” said Gwen.

“Fun?” mocked Anne. “…and you said you never lied.”

“I'd never seen a police file before. It was interesting. Details are important in my job as well. Loose ends can turn into big problems. While we're on that subject, I have a question I'd like to ask…a rather important one.”

Oh god
, thought Anne,
is she going to ask me to be a bridesmaid or something?
Anne's mind spun through a flurry of equally awkward options and hoped that the dismay in her mind hadn't wilted the expression on her face. Already her cautious pause was becoming too long and telling.

“Shoot,” said Anne.

Gwen looked directly at Anne. She smiled apprehensively, took a slow breath, and asked: “Are you in love with Dit?”

19.

“He is beautiful,” she said.

“You mean he's hot,” said Jacqui, “…or a hunk…or the bomb.”

Rada blushed. Both girls had been sitting together at a table in the school library and were staring across neat lines of desks and tables and carousels toward the blond head of Sig Valdimarsson.

“A bomb,” said Rada.

“
The
bomb,” corrected Jacqui. “So go over and say something to him.”

“I couldn't.”

“It's easy. Grab an armload of books, walk by, and accidentally drop them as you pass. He'll have to smile…make a joke…say something…or help you pick them up. That'll be a start. Right?”

“I couldn't.”

“It'll work. That's how I met Bobby,” she said and reflected on the moment when she pretended to trip near Bobby Fogarty's desk.
Gray's Anatomy
, the biggest book she could find, had toppled out of her arms, struck Bobby's temple, bent his glasses, and nicked his ear, and she ran to the principal's office for a first-aid kit to patch his cut. “We're very good friends now,” she added enthusiastically, trying to forget her mortification at the time.

“I couldn't.”

“Why? What's stopping you?”

“Mr. Shadi.”

Rada's eyes shifted toward the supervising teacher of another class in the library.

“He knows my father, and he would tell him that I am flirting with boys.”

“So?”

“It is not allowed.”

“…but, if you can't flirt, and you can't date, how can you meet guys? I don't get it.”

“In my family, meeting boys is arranged…through friends of my parents, cousins, relatives…”

“That seems like something out of a fairy tale or a Victorian novel.”

“That's the way things have always been.”

“Are you happy with that?”

“Sometimes I wish I were a Cinderella, and Prince Charming was searching the kingdom for me with a glass slipper.”

“Real Prince Charmings are more like Sig over there. You have to dump an armful of books on their heads to wake them up. I could vouch for him to your parents. I've known Sig since grade four.”

Rada looked longingly at Sig, and then hopelessly toward Jacqui. She said nothing.

“So much for a social life,” said Jacqui as the bell rang.

Both girls jumped up and gathered their books. Rada headed for algebra; Jacqui hurried for art class.

Jacqui grabbed her work-in-progress stored in a cupboard at the back of the art classroom. It was a charcoal sketch of Bobby Fogarty. It was sketch number seven of him. Her closest friends noticed a similarity. So did Madame Desjardins, the art teacher. That made her proud and hopeful. Bobby's birthday was coming up, and she was certain that matting the sketch in a fancy frame would make a wonderful present.

“
Très bien
, Jacqueline,” said Madame Desjardins looking over Jacqui's shoulder.

“
Merci
,” said Jacqui in her best Island French.

“Jacqueline, I am in need of a babysitter on Saturday evening. Are you available again?”

“Yes, Madame. What time?”

“Seven-thirty until twelve, okay?”

Jacqui nodded.

Madame patted her shoulder and returned to her desk to take attendance.

20.

Gwen's question hovered above Anne's head like a long blade in an
unsteady hand. The nature of the question disturbed her just as much as the directness with which it had been delivered. Bluntness was not a common Island trait.

Predictably, Anne had been stunned and silent. Gwen nonetheless sat beautifully poised and silent. She looked expectantly at Anne. Anne's lips parted. Then, something caught her attention, and her eyes were drawn toward the open office door.

Filling that empty door frame was Police Chief Jamie MacFarlane, his uniform crisply ironed and his shoes highly polished.

He stopped short when he saw Gwen.

“The door was open. Bad timing, I guess.”

“As I was telling Gwen, there's never a perfect time, but this is as good as it gets.”

Gwen stood up.

“Gwen, this is Stratford Police Chief Jamie MacFarlane. Chief, Gwen Fowler, Dit Malone's fiancée.”

“A pleasure,” he said, shaking her hand. Then he turned to Anne. “I didn't mean to interrupt. We could meet another time.”

“I was just about to leave anyway,” said Gwen. “We'll talk again sometime soon, Anne.” She smiled softly, lowered her eyes, and turned toward the door.

“I'll get back to you on that,” Anne replied.

MacFarlane's head turned and followed Gwen as she left the room and closed the office door behind her. His lingering gaze at Gwen had not escaped Anne's notice, and she felt a quiver of envy and agitation. Anne motioned him to a seat, and she settled behind her desk.

MacFarlane was larger than most east-coast police officers. He stood about six-four and had a robust frame. His hair was greying, his features well-proportioned. He had penetrating eyes. He was as daunting as he was handsome, but his most remarkable quality was his voice. It had resonance and depth that commanded attention.

“Is it Anne or Billy that you go by?”

“I'm Billy Darby at work and Anne Brown among friends. What's up, Chief?”

“The Villier case. I have some history with it. I knew Simone, the victim, and I thought perhaps I could give you some help.”

“Wouldn't that be a waste of time?” she said. Anne expected some reaction to her echo of his words to Ben: a twitch of lip, a tightening of shoulders, an embarrassed smile. However, she saw nothing but a blink of eyes, and the passing of an extra second or two before he replied.

“You've been talking to Ben, then.” He began again in a reflective tone.

“That's right.”

“I haven't changed my mind on that,” he said. “But I could have phrased it more diplomatically. My concern here is that this case was worked to death eleven years ago. I know. I was there. A suspect was caught, the evidence was clear, the judge agreed, and John Dawson got a well-deserved twenty years for the terrible crime he committed. That leaves me confused. I'm not sure just what more you can achieve by picking away at this case.”

“Maybe it'll confirm what's already been concluded; maybe it'll correct a miscarriage of justice. One or the other, that's my hope. That's what an investigation should do, right?”

“I see it opening up old wounds. A lot of people were devastated by Simone's death. Most of them have tried to put the past behind them—not an easy thing to do—and they wouldn't want to relive the agony of those months again.”

“Do you mean
they
or
you
?”

“Both, I guess. But I was thinking mostly about Bernadette Villier, Simone's mother. She's had a pretty tough life. Her husband died two years before the murder. He was a construction worker. He fell off a roof he was shingling and broke his neck. Simone was their only child. Bernadette started drinking. She's been sober for a few years now. I helped out some. Hate to see a relapse.”

“Why would you do that? Why would you step forward?”

“You've read the police report by now. You know that I had a relationship with Simone, and I also felt some responsibility to Bernadette…as a friend. Simone and I were in love. We were planning to get married. Did you know that?”

Anne shook her head.

“So Bernadette would have been my mother-in-law if things had turned out differently…and…not many know this, but Simone was pregnant at the time. She was thrilled when she found out…she almost glowed…and then it was over…swept away in one senseless act. Now she's dead, the baby, my son, never saw the light of day, Bernadette was nearly ruined, and my personal life became a shambles for a time. And that's why I hope you'll see that no good can come from digging up the past. Nobody wins…nobody.”

MacFarlane stared at the floor. Anne saw sadness in his eyes. He struck her as a pathetic figure at that moment, like a distraught child. He may warrant some of her pity, she thought, but Edna Hibley seemed to need and deserve most of it.

“I can sympathize with how you feel, Chief, but new evidence has come to my attention, and I can't ignore it.”

“Ben mentioned something about a letter. He showed me a copy, but I didn't put much stock in it. Maybe it's something that Dawson dreamed up in prison. Maybe it's a crank.”

Anne fished Carolyn Jollimore's letter out of her desk drawer and passed it to MacFarlane.

“Take a look. Her letter is dated, and the postmark is still visible on the envelope.”

MacFarlane looked at it thoughtfully. He stiffened for a moment. Then he said, “It doesn't prove that she wrote this letter, does it?”

“Maybe not, but it raises questions…”

“So far I haven't heard anything that connects Carolyn Jollimore with Simone that isn't complete speculation,” he said.

“Simone's murder was the only one at the time. What else could it refer to? This isn't Halifax where there's a couple of murders every Saturday night. And I'm not convinced that Carolyn Jollimore's death was an accident either. It's too coincidental. Something's not right.”

“So the author of the letter is dead. Is that what you're telling me? Then there's no evidence that this Jollimore woman was murdered, is there? Maybe she was careless. Maybe she was in some kind of mental state. It wouldn't be the first time I've seen that sort of thing. There's all kinds of explanations. You're not listening to the facts.” MacFarlane's voice sharpened, and it reverberated in the room.

“This letter is a fact, and my client wants an answer that explains it.”

“Who's your client? What's his connection to this?”

“I'm afraid that's confidential.”

“So, you don't want my help, then?”

“All I've heard so far is an argument to quit this case. That's not the help I'm looking for.”

“How long have you been a private investigator?”

“What's your point, Chief?”

“When you've been in law enforcement as long as I have, you'll realize that, after the evidence is examined and the pieces fit, you turn the page. Our evidence was solid, we presented it to the Crown, and it stood up at trial. The report into Carolyn Jollimore's death. What were the findings?”

Anne said nothing. MacFarlane stared at her. Then he said, “Right. They found nothing. It was an accidental death.”

“I think this letter may change their opinion on Carolyn's death,” said Anne and returned the letter to its drawer.