Notre Dame. Ann hadn’t passed on such specific information, and why would she? Holly felt the beginnings of an ugly trip down memory lane. Fourteen years ago, she’d said a joyous goodbye to that private school in Sooke and its snobs and cliques. She’d been a maverick and proud of it. The only faculty member she’d respected was the crusty librarian, Sister Dympna. How often she’d hidden out there and buried herself in books on trees, flowers, birds and animals of the island. At that time, the school had been all-girl, a deadly species, gatekeepers to a private hell. Her one friend Valerie, a natural comic and troublemaker, had joined the army and hadn’t been in contact since.
“How did you know which school it was?”
He rubbed his chin, making a rasping sound. “Ann said when she called me.”
Two paramedics made their way down with a stretcher. “Sorry to take so long. Hydro was taking a leaning tree at the Shirley curve. About time, but traffic was backed up for miles.”
“That’s all right, boys. She’s in no hurry.” Boone packed away his kit and motioned for the stretcher. “Good to go. Time of death’s not going to be easy. First in the water, then in the sun. Sure hope someone saw her somewhere sometime. Stomach content will be a helpful factor.”
Holly stripped off her gloves. “That’s what bothers me. Was she here alone? That seems strange.” Not for herself, though. She’d spent many quiet evenings on a beach, beside a small driftwood fire, thinking her own young thoughts as she grilled hot dogs.
Chipper had assembled a collection of paper evidence bags as they joined him. “Lots of trash. An open condom foil. Probably means nothing. It’s a beach, a place for partying.”
“Cleaner than most,” Holly said. Volunteers patrolled on a regular basis to polish their world-class jewel.
As Boone walked off and the paramedics knelt to attend to the body, Holly checked the boundaries. Chipper had done well, but if something had been overlooked, now was the time to find it. She passed a clump of Saskatoon berry bushes, generously dangling their luscious, supersweet fruits. A tall bunch of innocuous-looking plants threatened to brush her sleeve, and she pulled away. Stinging nettle. Fine in soup but painful to even the slightest brush. Then under a bush she saw a loose braid of greenery. To anyone else it might have appeared natural, but Holly’s trained eye spotted the anomaly. She inhaled its pleasant herbal aroma. Common sweetgrass, used in purification ceremonies among aboriginal North Americans.
At the parking lot, she took a fresh bag from Chipper, then watched Boone drive off in his rusty Land Rover, the tailpipe held in place by wire, nodding fractious acquaintance with the gravel. “What’s that?” Chipper asked, searching her eyes in a gesture of uncertainty.
“Sweetgrass.”
He considered the bundle, wrinkling his nose. “Like weed?”
She tried not to laugh. “No, First Nations people don’t smoke sweetgrass. They burn it like incense.”
His face brightened. “My mother loves sandalwood. She has a shrine to Ganesh. So what’s your take on this?” he asked.
“A blank slate. Safest that way. Let’s go talk to everyone.
They’ve been patient...curious more than rude. If longer statements are warranted, if there’s been negligence on the part of the school, we can call them back. There could be conditions for a lawsuit here, and we might need to testify. ”
Holly introduced herself to a group at the picnic table. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Johnson here, then Constable Singh and I will get your names and addresses.”
One tall and muscular girl with a tongue ring spoke up.
“How come? Wasn’t it an accident?”
Holly kept her voice low and reasonable, a combination of seriousness and approachability. “Just routine.”
When she heard a young man whisper “raghead” to his buddy, she shot him a stern look. A study in neutral, Chipper revealed neither by face or demeanor that he had heard anything.
She and Bob Johnson took seats on a huge log twenty feet from the group. Holly was determined to take her time and do things right from the start. “Mr. Johnson, you’re probably not familiar with our procedure for statements, but this is how it works. Tell me what happened in a chronological order. I ask questions and listen. Then you tell me again, and I write it down. I read it back to you to check the accuracy. Nothing too formal at this point.” She was trying to cover all the bases but realized how difficult that was with only a staff of two to handle a crowd. Suppose she missed something important? And worse yet, someone might be lying. The basic training scenarios, domestic violence, auto accidents, didn’t match. She thought of the tricky bar-fight scenario. How to winnow out those with helpful evidence and ignore the time-wasters, not to mention the confused drunks. With the events leading up to Angie’s death possibly taking place after dark, the circumstances called for a thorough investigation, leaving no one out. As Boone had said, certain information might help prevent future tragedies.
Bob told her what he had witnessed and when. He’d arrived at eight and snorkeled for an hour. Natural underwater treasures were one of the island’s greatest attractions. Because of its stable temperatures, the Northern Pacific had the greatest number of species compared to the more frigid oceans. Ninety species of starfish against only twenty in the North Atlantic. “One of the year’s lowest tides today. One metre. You can get out to the good stuff. Plumrose anemones, red urchins, maybe even a coonstriped shrimp or a sea cucumber if you dive deep enough.” He’d come back to the beach to snack on the coffee and muffin he’d brought, then gone back in for another half hour. That’s when he’d found Angie.
“And you’re by yourself here?” Holly asked. “Where do you live, for the record?”
“Oak Bay. We have a condo.”
With that tony address, Holly pegged him as an up-and-coming executive, especially when he added that he worked in Vancouver for Dell Computers. He also said that his pictures had appeared in B.C. Magazine.
Then she turned to a man who stepped forward with a mild air of authority. Well-groomed, his dark red hair with half-sideburns, he had a winning smile and soft grey eyes, crinkled at the edges. By his side on a leash was a tiny Yorkie, whimpering petulantly at the commotion. He picked it up and rubbed its silken head. A Harley Davidson bandana circled its neck. “Chucky,” he said. “More like the movie. He’s a real devil.”
An animal lover, Holly reached forward in reflex to pet the dog, but it gave a wicked growl, then a snap, and she pulled back her hand with an involuntary gasp.
“Sorry,” he said and gave the dog a mock shake, fastening its leash. “I’m Paul Gable. Vice principal.” He gave a gentle smile, then firmed up his lips as he watched her turn a fresh page. “It’s hard to believe this is happening. I don’t know where to start.”
He explained that Notre Dame sponsored a senior trip at the start of the year. The class had raised money through candy sales and car washes. Botanical Beach had been chosen for the hiking, kayaking, swimming and marine life, as well as its convenient distance from Sooke. That the area was rural and isolated was a bonus, since administrators hoped to keep the inevitable substance abuse to a minimum. They couldn’t prevent the occasional mickey of rye, but at least driving was already arranged. This year, two teachers had come down with early flu, so they were short on supervision. “I had to fill in myself at the last minute. Camping with teenagers isn’t my choice of weekend activities.”
Holly looked around. The crowd at the fringes had vanished. A slight headache from the sun began to explore her temples. Her hat felt tight. “So where are your students now?”
He looked wary, then embarrassed. “Um. Hope I didn’t make a bad decision, but I loaded up the kayaks and sent them back in the