“I do now,” I reply. I run to the fence, and climb over into the next yard.

  Where a fluffy white poodle rushes at me, barking.

  …

  I make it back over the fence on to the old woman’s property, but not before the poodle closes its teeth on my right ankle. Chomp. I kick the dog off. Whimpering, it falls back.

  It’s a toss-up whether I should seek out Ray or go to the ER for a tetanus shot.

  Ray wins out. Old habits die hard. I have to figure out this problem, my way, on my own. I have to fix it.

  I decide to give up trespassing through back yards, though. Thanks to the poodle, I’m now sporting a limp. I can’t shuttle over any more fences.

  Reaching Panorama Ridge, I hobble along to 148.

  …

  My plan isn’t brilliant or original. It’s to knock on the door and ask to see Ray.

  On the circular driveway I walk past a sleek green Mercedes and up to the panelled front door. I have knuckles raised, ready to knock, when I hear music coming from round the side of the house.

  It’s a hot night in the country

  Taking us to an all-time high …

  I flash back to the Mustang’s steaming hot, oxygen-challenged trunk. To the strains of Tracy Byrd filtering from the front, where Jace Turpin was listening to it.

  I abandon the straightforward approach. Except for the music, there’s no sign of life in the house. I head around the side.

  I find a terrace with a wide-angle view of Vancouver, clear from Lions Gate Bridge in the west to Second Narrows Bridge in the east. I don’t know if my brain can compute real-estate value this high.

  And Ray and Jace were into a kidnap scheme for something to do.

  One of the glass doors to the terrace is propped open with a purse, to let in the fresh morning air. Inside, a girl is jogging on a treadmill to

  Tracy Byrd.

  Singing along with him, she doesn’t notice me. I lean on the edge of the door and stare at her.

  She’s tall and slim, with almond-shaped green eyes and long, straight reddish-brown hair. She doesn’t pace on the treadmill so much as slink on it, like a cat. Her face is heart-shaped, with a bit of a pointed chin. This gives her a sly look. Again I think of a cat.

  Yeah, I can see why Jace found Ray Manetas sizzlin’ hot.

  Pausing like I’m doing is a bad idea. It makes me realize how tired I am. I’d like to slump down in one of the terrace’s lawn chairs. To snooze to the sound of Tracy Byrd, and this girl singing along with him.

  But sleep isn’t a luxury murder suspects can indulge in.

  Shoving my hands into my pockets, I walk inside. “I see you’re playing our song.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ray’s so startled she trips forward on the treadmill. I reach out to catch her arm, preventing her from falling.

  I say, “Yeah, it’s me, Colin Wirt. The guy you and Jace were going to frame.”

  Ray’s green eyes blaze. Jumping off the treadmill, she whips a towel off the nearby sofa. At first I think she’s going to slap me with it. Instead, she wraps it around her neck and glares.

  “How dare you trespass into my house,” she hisses. “The police are after you. I saw it on the news early this morning. I heard you were dangerous. They should have added, loony. Now take your crazy babbling and get out.”

  Ray sure has the imperious routine down. I guess she’s like Jace, used to everything going her way. These rich kids.

  It occurs to me that the nickname Ray doesn’t suit her. It’s too casual, too inadequate. She should stick to Rachel. Or maybe, given that off-with-his-head glare, Queen Rachel.

  I sink on to the white, plush leather sofa. The whole room is white. Kind of blinding when you’ve been bashed on the head. I look straight back at Ray, unflinching before those narrowed green eyes. “You’ve had your fun, your something-to-do, and now Jace is dead. Why not go to the cops before they come to you?”

  I put more confidence into my voice than I feel. But I’m rewarded with a sudden spark of fear in those almond-shaped greens. In a hard voice, Ray says, “They can’t prove anything. No one can.”

  “You killed Jace Turpin, didn’t you?”

  That fear springs into her eyes again, sharper than before. She swings her hand back, ready to slap me.

  Then she clenches her hand, stopping its momentum.

  And bursts into tears. “I didn’t mean to. Honestly.”

  Being vulnerable, she’s more appealing. And more dangerous.

  I stand up, half-despising the sobbing Ray, half-wanting to comfort her. I settle my conflicted feelings by grabbing a box of tissues off a coffee table. I shove it at her.

  She pulls out a whole bunch of tissues and wipes at her eyes. “Who are you, to be hurling accusations at people? You look like you just stepped out of a car crash. No — you look like you ARE a car crash.” She honks her nose

  into the tissues.

  “Save the insults for later, Ray. When you’ve confessed to the police and have started serving your time. I’ll come and visit you in jail, and you can insult me for hours on end, if you want.”

  She scowls at me, eyes bright with fresh tears. “It’s Rachel to you. And I’m not going anywhere near jail.”

  Her mouth stops trembling. A sly smile crooks at it. “I’d scram if I were you. All I have to do is start screaming. My dad will hear, and rush down. Know what? He’s a judge, Colin. Very influential — and very hot-tempered. He’ll think you’re forcing yourself on me. You’ll be toast.”

  “Save your threats,” I say shortly. “No one would believe you. You’re not my type, anyway.”

  Like heck she isn’t, with those almond-shaped green eyes and that mocking set to her mouth. And that slinky way of moving. Geez. Even when honking her nose, she’s slinky.

  She shrugs. “No? Not that I’m interested, but what is your type, then, Colin Wirt?”

  Unbidden, Bex Yarrow comes into my mind. Shy Bex, with the mean mother and the golden heart. Ballsy Bex, pressing a sandwich on me when the cops were about to swarm her house. Bex should be any guy’s type.

  I lean toward Ray, so that she instinctively backs away. “Your dad, the big-wheel judge, isn’t the only one around here who’s hot-tempered. Is he, Ray? That’s why you killed Jace. You couldn’t control your rage at him for bungling — ”

  “NOOOO!” she screams, clapping her hands to her ears.

  Rerun time. Expecting angry parental footsteps, I raise my eyes to the ceiling.

  Luckily Judge Manetas is a deep sleeper. There’s just silence.

  I lower my gaze to Ray. Having depleted her oxygen supply, she’s gulping raggedly, angrily, for breath.

  “Planning on an encore?” I inquire.

  “Just. Get. Out.”

  That seems to be all anyone ever says to me anymore.

  It’s not a dignified exit. I walk right into the glass door. At some point Ray’s purse fell over, so the door slid shut.

  I don’t glance back as I open it and exit. I know that mocking gaze will be back, and I can’t take it.

  …

  I’ve confronted Ray, and she’s admitted killing Jace. Now the police can deal with her. They’re the professionals. They’ll question her without being distracted by green eyes and a cat-like smile.

  I can turn myself in now. Unless a cop car spots me, I’ll go home and phone the police from there. That way, Mom will be with me when they come. She’d like that.

  I’ll tell you a story, Colin. Long ago, there was a boy named Wart. He pulled a sword from a stone.

  Yeah, it’d just about take a King Arthur to fix this mess. This raw deal I got myself into.

  I trudge down the sidewalk. I’m still hurting, but it’s downhill all the way to Mom’s and my apartment.

  I slow and start scuffing my runners against the sidewalk. I’m dissatisfied. That picture I put together of what happened at Turpin’s: it’s bothering me again.

  Why was Ray hiding in the back? That’s the piece that doesn’t fit.

  But I don’t have time to belabour the point. There’s a pop! and a bullet whistles past my ear.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I dive into a hedge. I smash through, emerging on the other side with leaves and twigs stuck to me. Then, sidestepping from the hole I’ve created, I squint through the leaves to the street.

  A Mercedes flashes in front of me, its shiny green catching the soft rays of the early

  morning sun.

  The car from the Manetas’s driveway. Ray has followed me. She’s decided that I know too much. I remember her threat: You’ll be toast.

  Obviously, a girl of her word.

  I look at the house behind me. A kid in PJs is staring over a windowsill. He’s sucking thoughtfully on his thumb. When he removes it, his first words could be: Mommy, come see the stranger in our yard!

  I hope Mommy does. I hope Mommy phones the police.

  Then, beyond the hedge — an engine purrs. Through the leaves I glimpse the Mercedes’s polished green flanks. Ray’s backing the car up, watching for me.

  I don’t have time to wait for good-citizen phone calls. Ignoring the pain in my ankle, I sprint around the back of the monster house and across a patio.

  Laurel bushes border the backyard. I push through the thick, oval leaves into a parking lot.

  A church looms in front of me. Its steeple rises high, glistening in the sun.

  I hear footsteps in the yard behind.

  I run to the church’s side door, yank on the knob. Locked.

  Laurel leaves rustle behind me. She’s almost here.

  I duck around a corner. I see another door, up a wheelchair ramp. It’s propped open with a rock. I hoist myself to the edge of the ramp and scramble over the railing.

  …

  I’m so winded that, once inside, I lean against the wall and heave deep, ragged breaths. I summon enough energy to kick aside the rock holding the door open. I pull the door shut, twist the lock.

  I’m in a kitchen. Grabbing a glass from the side of the sink, I run water into it. I glug the water back.

  Over the rim of the glass, I see on the wall, just past the sink: a phone.

  Before I can punch in 911, I hear a woman’s soothing voice on the line.

  “ … so sad, Mrs. O’Leary. Jonathan will be missed by the community. He was always so good about driving the church bus on St. Monica’s annual picnic day.”

  I heave another big breath, to interrupt and say that I have to call the police.

  But, from the other person on the line, there’s an explosion of weeping.

  Gently I replace the receiver. Maybe there’s a public phone somewhere.

  I exit down a hall. From overhead, notes thunder up and down the scale. An organist doing warm-ups — in preparation for this guy Jonathan’s funeral service, maybe.

  I pass a large room with tables lining the sides. Women are setting out platters of sandwiches, the dainty triangular kind with the crusts cut off. Also pitchers of lemonade — and lots of tissue boxes.

  One of the women pauses in arranging the sandwiches. She grabs a tissue and blows her nose.

  Another woman, wearing a black pantsuit with a minister’s collar, steps over to put an arm around her. This woman is tall, with short, sandy-coloured hair. Her bangs stand up, like she pushes them back a lot. Which might make someone else look comical, but her face is too calm for that. Too serene.

  I expect to hear There, theres, and that kind of stuff, but the tall woman tells the other one, “Let it all out, Renata. That’s what I just told your sister-in-law. Don’t hold it back.”

  It’s the same soothing voice I heard on the phone.

  And, there’s a phone just beyond her. That must’ve been the one she was using, and now it’s free. If I can get to it.

  I head into the room just as the plump woman wails, “To think that this was going to be a thank-you lunch, Reverend. St. Monica’s way of showing its appreciation for Jonathan. We even baked his favourite cake: chocolate, with triple strawberry frosting, topped off with

  toffee twirls.”

  Nice as the minister is, she can’t help herself. At the description of the cake, her face flickers with distaste. Another day I’d find this funny.

  Not that, with Ray toting a gun outside, I’m too sure I’ll have another day.

  I get a few glances, but everyone’s too busy fixing things up to pay much attention. I reach for the phone as the minister soothes Jonathan’s sister, “At least we can serve the cake in Jonathan’s memory.”

  I’ve punched in 911. I’m starting to sweat. What if the police don’t believe my story?

  But they’ll have to. They’ll find the Hannah’s guy. He’ll remember Jace coming in Turpin’s front door. Yeah, he will. He will. And that will prove there were two servers in the restaurant. That will back up my story.

  “Police emergency,” says a brisk dispatcher. Maybe the same one I heard earlier, until the trucker drowned her out with his revving engine.

  “My name’s Colin — ”

  A louder wail erupts from Renata. “My brother! Jonathan!”

  Along with everyone else, I turn to look at Renata.

  Clutching the minister’s arm, she’s gazing across the room at a huge, strawberry-frosted cake with toffee swirls on top.

  No, not at the cake. At the silver-framed photo someone is carefully setting down beside it.

  At the pudgy man inside the frame.

  I almost don’t clue in. I almost don’t get it.

  The man in the photo is wearing a suit and tie, not jeans and leather jacket. He’s smiling, not bleary-eyed and annoyed. He’s noticeably younger.

  It’s his sister’s earlier comment that tips me off. Staring at the guy in the photo, at his features that are familiar and yet not, my brain rewinds to Renata’s description of the cake:

  We even baked his favorite cake: chocolate, with triple strawberry frosting …

  A guy who likes his food in triplicate.

  Jonathan, the dead man, was the trucker.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “ … Jonathan was my one witness. My one chance.”

  I sit back in Reverend Beth Brickell’s stuffed armchair. I rub the heels of my palms over my eyes till fireworks flash against the lids. Not the most productive of responses to my situation. But at the moment I’m clean out of options — my last one having bit the dust along with Jonathan O’Leary.

  The kettle on the minister’s side table reaches a boil and whistles. Reverend Brickell pours the water over a teabag in a mug. She adds heaping spoonfuls of sugar.

  Outside, two police cars are parked, waiting. The Reverend phoned them, asking that they wait outside till we’re ready to meet them. Maybe asked isn’t the right word. Beth Brickell has the type of serene voice that you don’t say no to.

  Ray would’ve scrammed at the sight of the cops. She’s probably back on Panorama Ridge, fuming and plotting her next move.

  I bet those green eyes aren’t mocking right now. I bet they’re smouldering hard enough

  to light a cigar from.

  …

  In the church hall, when I realized who Jonathan was, I almost passed out. Reverend Brickell helped me into her office, firmly closing the door against the other, oh-so-curious women.

  Reverend Brickell stirs the tea and sugar with soft clanks of a spoon. “Jonathan O’Leary died an hour and a half ago at Lions Gate Hospital,” she says. “He had the sense to go there and check himself in, rather than try to make the last of his deliveries. But by then it was too late. The strain was too much for his heart. He had a coronary and died.”

  The minister sits in the chair next to me. She presses the hot mug into my hands.

  I drink, wincing. The tea is sugar-laden enough to slice. But it steadies me, forces me to focus on what she’s saying.

  “It was Staph,” Reverend Brickell says. Her calm blue eyes search mine. “You know what that is?”

  I think of those rows of meat patties, lined up with military precision on the Turpin’s grill. “Yeah, food poisoning from undercooked meat?”

  The minister nods. “The press is covering Jace’s murder. They don’t know yet about Jonathan’s death from food poisoning. At Mrs. O’Leary’s request, the police are keeping it out of the news as long as they can. She told me that a short while ago, when she phoned from the hospital.”

  I remember the sobbing voice I overheard on the kitchen phone; the despair that laced through every word like a weed.

  Jonathan definitely had a grumpy side. I came by earlier and you weren’t even open. I thought the place had closed down. I got places to be, deadlines to meet, ya know? But he’d been loved. And now he was gone. The ultimate raw deal.

  I say, “Now I get why Jonathan was in a hurry this morning. He wanted to get his deliveries over with because you guys were holding a lunch

  for him.”

  “Yes. Jonathan was one of our few parishioners licensed to drive a bus. No matter how long his shift had been, he never refused when we asked him to drive our kids somewhere. He was a gem. The lunch was to be in his honour. Well,” the minister says sadly, “it will be in his honour, but not the way we’d thought.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t get why Jonathan got so sick. At 3 a.m., the patties were slow-cooking on the grill, just the way the midnight shift had left them. I turned the grill up and cooked ’em just like Jace instructed. Everything’s carefully planned and timed at Turpin’s to avoid undercooking.”

  Reverend Brickell says, “No one could blame you for Jonathan’s death. It’s the quality of Sam Turpin’s meat that will be under investigation. Poor Sam. He’s lost his son. He may lose his business, too, once the media get hold of a spoiled-meat scandal.”

 

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