"He'd better, Trina. Either she goes by this evening or I will."
"Just remember," warned Trina with a finger in Rick's face, "you said that about the goat, and look what happened to him."
"How could I forget," said Rick, laughing. "But if a Vancouver cop slits Janet's throat and sticks her on a barbecue we'll report him to the humane society. OK?"
Inspector Mike Phillips of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police has never swallowed the force's mantra, and he has just as many failures as successes to show for his twenty-year career. And although it is barely eight-thirty, today looks like another check in the negative column as he scrutinizes the pathologist's preliminary report into the sudden death of Constable Roddick Montgomery.
"Heart attack," he mutters with a tone of disappointment, though the marks on the dead man's hand left by Janet's fingernails caught the mortician's eye and suggest that the deceased officer was engaged in some kind of struggle prior to his dramatic plunge.
"If someone attacked him and he died as a result," explains Sergeant Brougham on a technicality, "it would still be homicide."
"That's true —" begins Phillips, but he's interrupted by his personal cellphone.
"She seems to be a bit of a stray," explains Trina Button once the pleasantries are over.
"You could try the pound, then," jokes Phillips and catches a rebuke. "All right," he relents, grabbing a pen. "Give me her name. Who is she?"
"An angel."
"What? Come along, Trina, I don't have time to play. The Vancouver City boys have called me in to investigate one of their officer's deaths."
Trina stalls for a second, knowing that she's about to stretch. "OK, Mike. She says her name is Daena the fifteenth, though she insists it has to be written in roman numerals, like Daena XV."
"And you believe her?"
"It's what she believes."
"Sometimes I believe I sing Verdi's La Traviata just like Pavarotti — just don't ask my wife."
Trina laughs. "Knowing how much Ruth loves you she probably thinks you sound better than him, but actually I think the woman is Janet Thurgood, originally from England, though she denies it."
"Okay. Now we're getting somewhere. Date of birth?"
"Ah… I don't…"
"Look, Trina. Missing persons in Vancouver are the City police problem. Sergeant Brougham is with me now. Give him the details —"
"He'll reckon he's too busy dealing with accidents and things," Trina sneers, as if she was in no way responsible for the previous evening's snarl-up. "Anyway, his lot couldn't detect a bad smell in a bathroom."
"Trina!"
"I suppose I could try Raven. She'll know."
"Raven?" queries Phillips.
"You remember — the psychic who told your wife she'd won the lottery."
"And she was right."
"I know. But she also told me I wasn't gonna get hit by a bus."
"And were you?"
"No. But I was bowled over by a kid on a bike. It's just as painful."
"I'll see what I can do," promises Phillips once he's elicited a brief description of Janet. "But you really should hand her over to the Vancouver authorities."
"Not likely. I handed over a lost goat once and they ate it," Trina says snidely. "Anyway, she's scared of authority. She'll probably run again."
"Trina, be careful," warns Phillips, suddenly concerned. "Maybe she's on the lam from a loonie bin."
It's a good job I kick-box, thinks Trina as she puts down the phone. And she takes a practice leap at the kitchen door as fifteen-year-old Rob throws a cereal bowl on the table and heads for the fridge saying, "Who's the skeleton in the basement, Mum?"
"Oh. You mean Sister Mary?" jests Trina, straight-faced. "She's the new animal trainer: guinea pigs and uncouth teenagers."
Rob stops in thought, just for second. "Grow up, Mum."
"Touché. Anyway, what were you doing in the basement?"
"Watching television — Ky took mine."
"Right. That's it," seethes Trina, then she screeches to the ceiling, "Kylie Button, you're grounded."
"Mum. Forget it," says Rob. "She's already grounded, remember? No TV, no boys, no emails, cellphone, or texts. So she just takes mine."
"OK. So what's our visitor doing?"
"I think Bart Simpson freaked her out."
"Trust you," mutters Trina, picking up Janet's crucifix and making for the basement. "And tell your sister to get a move on or I won't drive you to school."
"Fine with me," replies Rob as Trina heads downstairs wondering whether or not it might be more sensible to give her teenagers a day at home as backup.
Janet leaps up from the television like a kid caught with his hand in his pants, and Trina switches it off, lightly saying, "It's all a load of garbage" as she tries to calm the woman with a hand, but Janet backs away until she hits the wall. The fearful woman's salt and pepper hair, scraped sternly back from her forehead, hangs like a frayed sisal rope down her back, although it is more knotted than plaited. And her pinched features and faded brown head scarf, as tight as a tourniquet across her forehead and around her face, have Trina thinking of a bald-headed buzzard.
"I'll do your hair if you take off your scarf," she tries warmly, but Janet's frightened eyes back her off, so she attempts bribery. "I could ask my hair girl to stop by and give you a snazzy style…" she starts, but Janet tightens the scarf and quickly butts in.
"Our Lord Saviour wouldn't approve."
"God wants you to have lovely long hair, but he doesn't want anyone to admire it?" Trina questions disbelievingly.
"He sees everything," explains Janet in a reverent whisper. "And he scorns vanity."
"Would you like some breakfast?" inquires Trina as she dances around the basement, keeping Janet at arm's length. But Janet is doing her own dancing.
"I can't pay you."
"I don't want —"
"Our Lord Saviour says…" begins Janet, then she spots her crucifix in Trina's hand, roughly snatches it, and grips it to her chest as if trying to force it into her heart. "Where did you get it?" she demands.
"I just want to help you get home," tries Trina, but Janet drops to her knees and raises her crucifix and eyes to the ceiling.
"I shall dwell in the house of Our Lord Saviour for eternity."
"With any luck we all will. But where do you live now?"
"255 Arundel Crescent, Dewminster, Hampshire, England," intones Janet by rote.
"That's a long walk."
"255 Arundel Crescent, Dewminster, Hampshire, England," she repeats as if stuck in a loop.
"But how did you get here?"
"255 Arundel Crescent, Dewminster, Hampshire, England," she reiterates, pacing with agitation, and Trina takes refuge behind the guinea pig's cage. "Time for his morning walk," she says, grabbing the cage, and she quickly slips out and closes the suite door firmly behind her with the growing feeling that she has a very restless cat loose in the basement — but is it a Blue Persian or a white tiger?
With the television off, Janet seeks comfort from her God as she caresses and kisses the smooth face of Jesus, while above her in the marble-floored kitchen Trina telephones Margaret, her dispatcher, to say that she will be unable to visit her regular clients today.
"Mr. Hammett