Cold Mourning. Brenda ChapmanЧитать онлайн книгу.
he talk about any problems at work or in his life?”
“Well, he worked too much and business was stressful. His diet was terrible after our divorce. I’m not sure Laurel knew how to cook.” Pauline lifted her mug and held it in front of the tight line of her mouth.
“It couldn’t have been easy for you.” Kala watched Pauline’s eyes.
Pauline slowly lowered the cup. “No, but our marriage ended ten years ago when Tom hit the mid-life crisis. I’ve long forgiven him. We’re friends again, although I’m not particularly fond of Laurel.” She shrugged. “I’m sure you can understand.”
“Do you have any idea where Tom might have gone?”
“No. I’m not privy to his comings and goings. If he and Laurel were having trouble, he might be somewhere clearing his head. When we were married, he was gone a week before he got in touch with me to tell me that he was leaving.”
“You must have been frantic.”
“No. I knew he was having an affair. I was hoping … well, that he’d get her out of his system and come home. I thought he just needed some time. I knew it would devastate Geraldine and Hunter if we separated. Unfortunately, Hunter still doesn’t have a good relationship with his father.”
“It seems like a long time not to get over a parents’ divorce.”
“They’re both strong-willed men.”
Kala took a drink of coffee and signalled Whelan with her eyes.
He handed Pauline a card. “Call any time and leave a message if you think of anything. One of us will be back to you as soon as we can.”
“Thank you, I will.”
They stood. “Nice paintings,” commented Whelan, moving toward them. “Is that your signature at the bottom?”
“Why, yes. I dabble and also teach at two youth centres twice a week. It’s something to do.”
“You should sell some. They’re very good.”
“I mostly give them to family and friends. I’ve sold a few.”
They started down the hallway to the front door just as the doorbell rang.
“It’s probably my friend Susan Halliday, who’s come for our morning walk.” Pauline stepped past them and opened the door.
The woman standing on the top step was about the same age as Pauline but her hair was a chestnut brown and pulled back into a pony tail, making her seem younger than a woman approaching sixty. Both women were in good shape and wore their clothes well. Susan Halliday had on a red ski jacket, black gortex pants, and runners. Her smile disappeared when she saw Pauline’s visitors.
“I didn’t realize. If you’d rather run later, I can come back,” She turned and started down the steps.
“We were just leaving,” said Whelan. “No need to go on our account.” He passed her on the stairs, doing up his jacket as he went.
“Come in, Susan,” Pauline called over Kala’s head. “I’ll just be a few secs.”
Susan hesitated and waved toward her Mazda. “I’ll just get my water bottle and will be right back.”
Kala looked back at Pauline. “Thank you for your time.”
Pauline blinked as if being pulled back from somewhere far away. The tight line of her mouth relaxed and a hand came up to brush back the hair from her forehead. “I hope you find Tom soon,” she said as she started to close the door. “Christmas is when a family should be together.”
Whelan started the car as Kala climbed in the passenger side. He leaned forward and scraped at some frost from the inside front window while they waited for the engine to warm up. “What did you think of Tom’s ex?” he asked.
“I know why Laurel avoids family get-togethers with the clan. I’d have a headache too.”
“What you find out about families. Makes me satisfied with my own lot.”
“Where to next?”
“We can swing east swing and talk to the son before we head downtown to Underwood’s office.”
“Works,” said Kala. She checked her notepad. “Looks like a bit of a drive. Hunter lives just off Highway 417 near Carlsbad Springs.”
“A country boy. Should take forty-five minutes or so to get there.”
Kala looked out the side window. Snow had begun lightly falling and flakes were landing on the glass like confetti. She glanced into the side mirror as they pulled away. The friend, Susan Halliday, stood behind her vehicle watching them. Kala kept herself from turning around to stare.
“You know what’s odd?” she said to Whelan.
“What’s that?” He looked over at her.
“Her friend, that Halliday woman, went for a water bottle but I could see the shape of one inside her jacket.”
“Maybe she just forgot she already had it.”
“Maybe,” said Kala. Or maybe she was just trying to avoid talking to us.
She kept the thought to herself.
An hour and a half later, Whelan was driving at a snail’s pace the length of the country road for the third time. The snow had picked up speed and was making visibility difficult. Kala squinted toward an opening in the jagged line of snowbanks.
“This has to be his driveway. I can’t see anything else.”
“What, is the guy in the witness protection program?” asked Whelan. “Where the hell is his mailbox?”
He turned the car slowly and started up the unplowed side road, which wound to the right through pine trees and bushes frozen in ice. It was icy, slow going. Half a kilometre on, a black and tan dog the size of a Rottweiler bolted out of the woods and began loping alongside their car. Kala could see its head bobbing up and down outside her window.
“Careful,” she said to Whelan. “The dog could slip under the tire.”
Whelan muttered under his breath and scowled but slowed the car to a crawl. Finally, he pulled into a clearing and parked next to a green Cherokee Jeep. A small cabin was set back into the trees. Smoke billowed from the chimney and disappeared skyward into the falling snow.
“What do you think our chances are with the dog?” asked Whelan, leaning his arms on the steering wheel and turning to face her.
“Scared?”
“Let’s say I have a healthy respect.”
“I’ll go first,” said Kala already opening her door. “Hey boy,” she called. The dog’s tail wagged. “How are you boy? You protecting your property?” She reached down her hand to let him smell before scratching his head. She stepped out of the car and looked back at Whelan. “The danger has been neutralized.”
She straightened and looked over at the cabin. A man stood in the open doorway holding a cup of coffee. He whistled through his fingers and the dog ran toward him. Kala and Whelan followed at a slower pace. They stopped a few yards away.
“Hunter Underwood?” asked Kala. She blinked as his eyes stared into hers. His were a riveting deep grey, lined in dark lashes. “We’re with the Ottawa Police. We’ve come to speak with you about your father.”
“Come in,” he said, turning abruptly and disappearing inside.
Whelan looked at Kala and shrugged before he led the way up the stairs.
The living room was sparsely furnished. A battered leather recliner sat near the window with a floor lamp next to it. Bookcases lined two walls. The only other piece was a roll-top desk with a laptop set on top. She followed the men into the