It wasn’t long before Kala could see that Rose was getting tired. She’d eaten all of the cake though, so that was a good sign. When Dawn took a drink of milk and was momentarily quiet, Kala said, “Why don’t I take Dawn for a walk and you can have a nap? We’ll come back by four o’clock and make supper.”
“That’d be good. I think I need to sleep for a bit because I did the laundry this morning. Annie should be back by then too.”
Dawn and Kala scooped up the dirty dishes and remainder of the cake and brought everything into the kitchen. Kala hadn’t been in this room before and took her time looking around. The floor was yellowing linoleum, curling at the edges, and the cupboards were fifties-style plywood painted apple green. The stained counter and ancient appliances were spotlessly clean. A small table and wooden chairs filled the spare space. Her eyes travelled to the art gallery on the wall and she stepped closer.
“Dawn, are these your paintings?”
“Yes, all except for this one. My last teacher at the community centre gave it to me for Christmas.” Dawn danced in front of her and pointed to a framed watercolour of daisies in a vase. “She said I was her best student ever. See how pretty? I want to paint like that some day.”
Kala looked from the painting to Dawn and then back at the painting. Her heart quickened. She leaned closer and squinted. “What was the name of your teacher?”
“Pauline. She was nice. See, her name is on the bottom corner.”
It was exactly as Kala had thought. Pauline Underwood. “You said that she quit before Christmas? Can you remember when exactly?”
“Two weeks before. She said that she was going away to get married. She had to get things ready because it was a big surprise.”
“Pauline, your teacher, said that?”
“Uh huh. We used to talk because I stayed late to work on my art projects. She knew my dad was away and said that her husband left her and her kids too for a while, so she knew how hard it was. She was happy we were both going to have them back soon.”
Kala stood still. Something cold and dark travelled up her spine. The curtain had blown back for the briefest of instants, but it was enough. She never doubted the silent, mysterious workings of the universe. Signs were fleeting and intangible. You had to be open to them when they appeared.
She knew that murder could happen when people were pushed too far — when a loved one betrayed a person beyond what they could endure. Betrayal could throw someone who was off-balanced to begin with into a tailspin. She ran the facts of Tom Underwood’s and Benny Goldstone’s deaths and Susan’s near-death in the Gatineau Hills through her mind, and all that she remembered about Pauline Underwood. Comments that family members had made about her inability to cope with Tom’s desertion slotted into place like puzzle pieces. The clues had been there all along, but Pauline had kept herself a quiet presence in the background, hiding her rage behind a facade of normalcy. Pauline had fooled them all and might have still, but for the secret she’d confided in this innocent girl whom she’d had no reason to believe would ever tell anyone of importance. Pauline had shared her fantasy world with Dawn before she learned of Tom’s final betrayal with her best friend.
Kala knew she would have to go carefully and methodically if she was to trip Pauline up. A theory wasn’t enough. She was going to have to find hard proof that Pauline was a cold-blooded killer.
She looked at Dawn standing so quietly beside her. They’d go shopping for new boots and then she’d return to the station to start sifting through the evidence one more time. The night ahead would be a long one, but it felt good to be back on the trail.
36
Sunday, February 26, 7:10 a.m.
Susan waited by the back door, getting overheated in her down winter coat. She could hear Clinton upstairs walking from the bathroom to their bedroom and back again. He must be almost done packing his toiletries and the last of his clothes. A few more minutes and he’d be on his way downstairs.
She waited until she heard him leave the bedroom to cross to the landing at the head of the stairs before opening the front door. She stepped outside into the dark, cold morning, which was all the more painful after two weeks of above seasonal temperatures. Her nightgown under the knee-length coat clung to her legs as she darted down the steps and the icy walk to Clinton’s Toyota. Her breath was a cloud of frosty mist in front of her. She fumbled with the electronic opener and hoisted herself into the front seat, leaving one leg to dangle outside the open door. The engine took some coaxing but turned over on the third try. Clinton had forgotten to plug in the block heater the night before, and it was the coldest morning they’d had in quite a while. She adjusted the dial to turn the heater on full before stepping down to scoot back inside the house.
A white paper fluttering under the windshield wiper on the driver’s side of the frosted window of her van caught her attention. She smiled and carefully removed the paper, tucking it into her pocket.
At last.
Clinton met her just inside the door, putting on his green coat. He’d already laced up his black army boots.
“Cold out there?”
“Very,” she shivered and decided to keep her coat on a while longer.
“A few minutes earlier next time, aye? It won’t have warmed up before I hit the 417.”
“Sorry.” She forced herself to frown as if she really was.
“That’s okay. I’ll call tonight at the usual time.”
“I’ll be waiting. Drive safe,” she said as an afterthought.
He grabbed the sleeve of her coat and pulled her to him. Panic fluttered in her chest for the briefest of moments before she felt his hot lips on hers. He forced his tongue into her mouth. She forced herself to relax and fought down the urge to gag.
He smiled as he pulled back from her. “Stay out of trouble.” He patted her rear end hard enough to leave a mark, if she hadn’t been wearing a layer of down.
“Always,” she responded.
She locked the door after he left and watched through the curtain in the living room until she was certain he’d gone. She drifted into the kitchen. As usual, Clinton’s dishes were rinsed and neatly stacked in the sink. She’d made him bacon and eggs but hadn’t eaten any herself. It was odd this feeling of never being hungry.
She took a coffee mug from the cupboard over the sink and poured herself a cup from the coffeemaker. The first few swallows washed away the taste of him in her mouth. She pushed the hair out of her eyes, catching sight of her reflection in the window. When had she become this old woman with tangled hair and haunted eyes?
She crossed the floor and sat down heavily at the kitchen table. She stared into her coffee cup and tried to find the energy to drink. A flush of heat travelled up her neck and cheeks and she remembered that she still wore her down coat. She wiggled one arm out of a sleeve and paper crinkled in the pocket. The note! She reached inside and pulled it out, smoothing it on the table as she shrugged out of the other sleeve. A smile tugged at her lips. Pauline.
She was always leaving notes for people in unexpected places. An obsessive walker, she’d drop messages in the mailbox or under windshield wipers if it was too early or too late to visit. This one was short and unsigned. The letters were jerky as if Pauline’d leaned the paper against a tree while she scrawled the message. The usual place? Nine a.m.
Susan sighed deeply. Maybe her friend was back from the deep well inside herself where she’d retreated to grieve. They’d hardly spoken since Tom died, but now Pauline seemed willing to revive their daily walks down by the Rideau River. Not for the first time, she was glad that