The techies had been working on the problem for years. At the end of the line, Port Renfrew was stricken when their phone lines went down in storms. Last week a car rushing a patient to hospital had crashed, leaving two victims to the failures of telecommunications along a rocky, forested coast.
Back in Fossil Bay, she and Chipper completed their paperwork at the detachment. Late reports were an officer’s bane. This would be a good test of the man’s determination... and his grammar. Careless errors which emerged in court cast doubt on the investigatory skills of an officer and could toss a case into the garbage can. Ann had left on their arrival, taking her aching back to an early bed.
A few hours later, she rendezvoused with Gable at the busy corner of Grant Rd. Noticing that he drove a venerable VW bus with large flowers painted on the side, she couldn’t help but comment when they parked on Rhodenite Drive in a tidy suburban enclave. “I know,” he said with a grin as he bumped the rusty door with a hockey hip block. “Got it from the collection of an aging hippie draft dodger. Runs an organic farm in Duncan. As old as the Vietnam War, but it still ticks like a Timex. While the weather’s still good, I plan to do some exploring on the island. Strathcona Provincial Park, Cathedral Grove. Come winter, I might get over to Whistler for some skiing.”
The Didricksons lived in a pink stucco storey-and-a-half home, judging from the rounded brown shingles, probably built in the early nineties. A towering monkey puzzle tree grew on the front lawn. As they walked along the bricked path, Holly gazed up at the heavy fruits ready to fall. Late-blooming azaleas and plump rhodos added riots of pink and purple to the tropical effect. Greater Victoria benefitted from the Japanese current, which moderated temperatures. Neither too hot nor too cold. The perfect porridge. A glossy black vintage Mercedes sat in the drive, ready for a Sunday parade. Islanders pampered their classic cars, freed from the salt and wear of winter driving. Forty-year-old Mustangs mingled with Gremlins, Bonnevilles, Pintos and the odd Studebaker Golden Hawk.
More nervous as they approached, Holly reviewed her courses in Interpersonal Communications, Crisis Management and Grieving. What had she learned about breaking bad news? Empathy. Eye contact. No box of tissues to replace the charming but unhygienic handkerchief. She hoped she wouldn’t stutter.
“Ready?” Gable gave her an encouraging look. For a moment, she thought he was going to squeeze her hand.
She knocked firmly, and the door was opened by a large man with broad shoulders. He had a slight beer belly, but the fitness genes announced themselves, and so did the aromas of bacon and fried potatoes from a late breakfast. In comfortable jeans, he wore a polo shirt and carried a copy of the Times Colonist under his arm, a welcoming smile on his round face, thick brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Seeing her uniform, he furrowed his brow, then looked at Gable, a question in his cool blue eyes.
“Paul? Anything wrong?”
Gable shifted his glance back and forth. “Nate, this is Corporal Martin.”
Her pulse off to the races, Holly stepped forward, her hand extended. Their shake was a mere gesture of civility. Out with it.The swift cut is the kindest. “I have bad news. Your daughter, Angie, has been in an accident at Botanical Beach.” Damn. She hadn’t breached the battlements of the cruelest truth.
He stepped back as if struck, placing a workingman’s large hand on the door frame. His unshaven face paled, and his jaw hardened, a muscle at the corner pumping. “A car wreck? Damn those kids. I told her not to ride with anyone with a novice license.” He paused, staring in accusation at Gable. “You said you were taking vans. Call this responsible chaperoning? What the hell—”
“It’s not that, Nate,” Gable said, putting a hand on his shoulder and blinking, moisture in his eyes.
Holly swallowed back a sob. “She drowned, sir. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
As they stepped inside, she let Gable take him aside for a moment, opening her notebook in an automatic gesture. What did she really have to ask him anyway? A few muffled groans came from Nate, the paper dropping to the handsome fir flooring. Behind him, a polished mantelpiece was covered with shiny gold and silver trophies. On the wall, candid pictures of Angie poised at the starting blocks at her meets displayed the progress of a champion. Hadn’t Gable mentioned a son? An ancient golden retriever rose from a cushy corduroy pillow in front of the fireplace, shook its arthritic body, and ambled toward Nate to nuzzle his hand.
He straightened and cleared his throat. For a moment, though he opened his mouth, no words came. Suddenly he became aware of the dog and let his fingers brush the silken ears. “Buster. He’s nearly blind now. Got him when Angie was three. He was her guardian angel.”
Holly made sure that the dog saw her first before she stroked it. Like most goldens, it was quiet and amenable. A perfect therapy dog. Not as serious as shepherds, nor as bright, but a winning, dippy smile that made it one of North America’s favourites.
Nate pulled himself from Gable’s steadying arm. “When can I—”
Holly adjusted her voice for the gentlest tone. He was handling the death of a child better than she expected. Yet what else could he do? Keening and wailing was a woman’s province. Men had such burdens. No wonder they snapped. Her father had been dry-eyed throughout the crisis with her mother. For her a solid knight. But in private, she knew he mourned at every sunset, staring out to sea, alone and frozen in grief.
“Angie is at the Jubilee. There are formal procedures. An autopsy perhaps.”
“Is that necessary? She drowned. It seems simple enough. Why put us through...” His voice trailed off, and he finally let his legs shuffle him to a seat in a leather armchair.
“They’re ordered thirty per cent of the time. It’s rare but possible that physical causes were responsible.”
“What physical causes? She was a goddamn world-class athlete. She should have lived...” His voice trailed off, and his fists squeezed into themselves.
Holly took from him only what she needed for the time being, the evidence of a life. “We’ll give you a call tomorrow. And Mr. Didrickson, I’m so very sorry.”
As they walked to their vehicles, a boy about eight with a vocal VRRRROOOOM tore down the street on a mountain bike, bumped up a curb, and turned into the driveway. Gable gave a wave. “That’s the son. Robin.” He wiped at a tear in his eye. “I’m going to stay with Nate for awhile. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“It’s kind of you. I was going to suggest it if there isn’t local family. This is no time for him to be by himself.”
“He has a sister in Metchosin. Very nice lady. I’ll get her over here.”
Back at the detachment, Holly passed Chipper heading for his elderly Sunfire. He’d been taking the bus, but had recently got a loan from his parents to buy the thousand-dollar beater.
Under his arm, he carried a manila folder. “Taking my report home for another read,” he said. “One class assignment I wrote: ‘She said that she had been gone for fifteen minuets and that her ex-husband had stolen the cat for breading purposes.’” He spelled the offending words.
Despite the grim day, Holly produced a genuine laugh. “Spellcheck was invented to lull a writer into a false sense of security.”
“You’ve got that right.” He held up a battered Strunk and Whyte style manual. “Ann gave me this. Said she nearly wore out the pages. I never can keep affect and effect straight.”
At least her staff got along with each other, she thought. Inside, she organized her notes and rerouted the answering machine to her house as officer on call. Then she set the security cameras and locked up. As quiet as Fossil Bay was, keeping the detachment open for more than one shift wasn’t feasible.
“Hello, baby,” she said to the 1985 Honda Prelude. When her Civic had coughed its last breath at 250,000 klicks, she’d traded it in at Sooke Motors, adding a new sound system for CDs. The Prelude was cherry in colour and condition, having been owned by an eighty-year-old