Stonechild and Rouleau Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Brenda Chapman
Rouleau nodded before he bent down to slip off his boots. “I think that would be best.” He started after Laurel while Hunter remained behind.
Kala looked up at him from where she’d leaned against the wall to pull off a boot. “Do you stop by often?” she asked quietly.
Red diffused upward from his collar. “No, but I’ve been checking because somebody had to tell her. Nobody else in the family would have made the call. I thought it would be a kindness if she heard about her husband’s murder in person.”
“Your sister wouldn’t tell her?”
“Geraldine? Not bloody likely.” His voice was as low as hers. The conversation felt too close and intimate. His eyes burned into hers as if he was trying to convince her that he was telling the truth. She swayed and he reached out and steadied her as she wobbled on one foot. His touch was unexpected. She pulled her arm away but not before his eyes looked hard into her own. She averted her eyes from his and took a step backward. She was uncomfortably aware of his closeness. He smelled of the outdoors and wood smoke.
She followed him into the kitchen. Two glasses were on the table, one empty and one newly filled with amber liquid. Laurel lifted it to her lips. “Cheers,” she said to nobody in particular. Hunter put the empty glass on the counter and sat in the chair closest to Laurel. He rested a hand on her wrist as if to calm her.
Rouleau glanced up at Kala and then back to Laurel. “Unfortunately, your messages went through to the voicemail of an officer who’s been on sick leave,” he said. “We’ve been by your home and called your phone numbers several times. We didn’t find out until now that you’d left another number. We had no idea where you’d gone.”
“But I phoned twice. Both times the officer who answered sent me through to the voicemail. I thought … I thought my husband might join us if I was where we were supposed to be. We’d booked the chalet and I was hoping he would come to me. If he was in trouble, he would reach me there.”
“Where is the chalet?”
“Mount Tremblant. Several hours from here.”
“Didn’t you have your cellphone with you?” asked Kala. “You gave us the number when we were last here. We called numerous times but it was turned off.”
Laurel nodded. “After I left the number at the chalet, I turned off my phone. Charlotte and I only left the chalet to go for walks and I thought you would call me at the number I left twice on that voicemail.”
“For which we sincerely apologize,” said Rouleau.
Laurel turned toward Hunter, who had sat without moving through the exchange. “I just can’t believe it. Who would kill Tom?”
“So you hadn’t heard from your husband since you reported him missing,” said Rouleau. It was a statement, not a question. “Do you have any idea at all who would have wanted to harm him?”
Laurel shook her head. Her eyes were closed and tears seeped from under her eyelids.
Hunter slid his hand down to cover one of her hands with his own. He turned to look at Rouleau. “I couldn’t say either.”
“What time did you arrive today?” Rouleau asked Hunter.
“A half hour or so before you.”
“How did you know Laurel would be home?”
Hunter shrugged. “It was a guess. I was in town anyway and decided to take a chance. Nothing more covert, I’m afraid.”
“But you parked three blocks away,” said Kala. “Why?”
Hunter turned his gaze back to her. His half-smile revealed nothing. “I felt like a walk in the snow. I’d been sitting a long time and wanted some exercise.”
Laurel hit the table with the palm of her hand and they all looked at her. “All these intrusive questions when you should be out looking for who murdered my husband. Hunter had nothing to do with it and neither did I. I demand that you stop harassing us and find the person who did this!”
Kala glanced at Rouleau. He looked regretful but unmoved at the same time. She imagined it was an expression that served him well in other investigations. When he spoke, his tone was measured.
“We’re only doing our job, madam. I’m sorry if you find the questions objectionable, but don’t forget that your answers can serve to remove you as suspects. We only go where the evidence leads us, but to do that we must ask questions. I know your husband’s death has come as a shock, but I assure you that we are doing everything possible to bring whoever is responsible to justice, including asking questions of everyone who knew him.”
Laurel’s shoulders slumped and she lowered her head so that a tumble of red hair covered her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just feel so … devastated.”
Kala studied her. Her submissive reaction struck a false note, but if Rouleau felt the same way, she couldn’t tell.
He stood. We’d like to search your husband’s home office and bedroom if you would be so kind. I have officers who will be looking for anything at all that will let us know who your husband was meeting the morning he disappeared.
Laurel raised her eyes. “I looked everywhere when he didn’t come home but didn’t find anything. I don’t think you’ll find anything either.”
“But we will look. The team will be here within the half hour. We’ll leave no stone unturned. Of this you can be assured.” He motioned to Kala. “Perhaps you could show Officer Stonechild the library while she waits for the other officers to arrive.”
Kala watched Laurel look at Hunter through the veil of hair that shielded her face. Whatever passed between them must have satisfied her because she nodded her head in his direction before standing.
“I’ll do all it takes, to punish Tom’s killer,” she said. “If you need to camp out in our house and go through every goddamn piece of paper, you’re welcome to it.”
17
Monday, December 26, 11:35 a.m.
Geraldine spent Boxing Day morning rattling around her empty house. When they’d gotten out of bed around seven, Max had made scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast for breakfast before saying that he’d put in a few hours at the office and be home mid-afternoon. She hadn’t argued with him. In fact, she was glad to be alone.
All morning she’d tried to push away the grief and ignore the bottles of wine hidden in the upstairs cupboard — bottles that had started out as symbols of her inner strength that could quickly become her downfall. The baby was restless inside her, rolling and shifting position, trying to get comfortable, as if commiserating with her anguish. She’d spent an hour in the nursery rocking in the old oak rocker that had been her grandmother’s. She’d been surprised to feel dampness on her collar, not aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks. At noon, she remembered that she hadn’t eaten much of the breakfast Max made. She’d felt nauseous for the first time in ages when she first got out of bed, and the smell of frying bacon had made it worse. But now she was hungry.
She made her way into the kitchen and stood leaning into the fridge, feeling her stomach roll at the sight of bottles of gherkin pickles, mayonnaise, and defrosting chicken, pooling pinkish blood on a white dinner plate. Her eyes skimmed over the containers of yogourt and cottage cheese, apples and carrots. Healthy food that Max insisted she eat. He’d cleaned out the ice cream and Fudgsicles from the freezer. There was no point even opening that door. Nothing in the fridge appealed to her. She was ready to give up and check out the pantry when she spied an unopened brick of cheese under the carton of eggs. Cheese was something she might be able to keep down.
She cut thick slabs of bread and slathered butter on both sides. Then she sliced off wide pieces of cheese that she carefully arranged to cover the bread without overlapping. She set the sandwich into the melted butter in a frying pan she’d