“Nothing encouraging. Sandra Mikalonis went to Clare’s apartment building and talked to the super. He remembered Clare’s leave-taking very vividly, mostly because it took place so quickly, and he didn’t deal with Clare face to face. In fact, the super doesn’t remember seeing Clare at all after the first week in November.”
“Did he usually see her?”
“Yes. She lived at the Waverly on College Avenue. It’s not one of those vast, soulless places. The super saw Clare most mornings when she came back from her run. He says what everyone says. Clare was pleasant but she kept to herself. He also says he was surprised that Clare never knocked at his door to say goodbye. He thought they were friends.”
“Was the lease up?”
“It was a sublet. The original tenant came back on the first of January. Clare’s rent had been paid until December 31.”
“Smooth as silk,” I said.
“Yes,” Maggie said. “Someone arranged for a moving company to come in and pack for Clare – everything, right down to the toilet paper on the roll, the super said.”
“Where did Clare’s furniture get shipped?”
“A warehouse in Vancouver. Joanne, it’s still there. Clare’s things were never claimed.”
I felt the last small wisp of hope escape. “Have you told the police?”
“Yes, and we think it’s time we told the partners at Falconer Shreve what we know. They think they’ve pulled this off. We have to show them that they haven’t – that we’re carrying out our own investigation and that, unlike Inspector Kequahtooway, we can’t be bribed.”
My spirits sank. “You think that’s what happened, that someone at Falconer Shreve paid the inspector to shut down the investigation?”
Maggie made no attempt to check the asperity in her voice. “Do you have a better explanation? Anyway, it’s obvious that someone at Falconer Shreve knows something. They’ve got a firewall of administrative assistants and juniors at their office. We’re thinking that if we come out to Lawyers’ Bay, we can go for a walk on the beach, make ourselves conspicuous. Then maybe someone who needs a chance to talk will realize they can talk to us. What do you think?”
I remembered the calm determination of Clare Mackey’s face in her graduation portrait. “I think it’s worth a shot,” I said. “And, Maggie, why don’t you give Anne Millar a call and tell her what you’re planning to do? She might want to be a part of it.”
Maggie sighed. “Good idea. I’ll need her number.”
I gave Maggie Anne’s number. “I guess the next step is to decide when you’re coming. Zack’s been working from his cottage and Blake and Delia both drive out after work. So I guess you can pick your evening.”
“How about tomorrow around seven?”
“Tomorrow’s fine,” I said.
“Thanks for helping, Joanne. I know that Clare is just a name to you, but she was a decent human being.”
“That’s reason enough,” I said.
CHAPTER
10
I dressed with more than usual care for my evening with Zack Shreve. I was under no illusions about the motive behind his dinner invitation. From the night that he manoeuvred his chair into the gazebo bent on discovering and discrediting what Chris Altieri told me, Zack had his sights trained on me. He wasn’t sure what I knew or where I fit into the picture, but he wasn’t about to let me disappear from his range of vision. Now I had my own reasons for establishing rapport. So when Zack called from his car to say he was out front, I smoothed the mauve-grey silk of my favourite summer shirt and slacks, freshened my lipstick, and took a deep breath. It seemed entirely possible that, to quote Bette Davis’s stinging appraisal, we were in for a bumpy ride.
We got off to a good start. Seated behind the wheel of his white Jaguar, Zack could have been a GQ cover: great tan; jacket, slacks, and shirt in coordinated shades of taupe and coffee; dark hair still curling damply from the shower. He leaned across and opened the door on the passenger side. “You look sensational,” he said.
I slid in beside him. “You’re looking pretty tasty yourself,” I said. “Shall we get started?”
The lake on which Lawyers’ Bay was situated was one of a quartet known as the Calling Lakes, which wound through the Qu’Appelle Valley. The Stone House restaurant was on the lake next to ours. Zack had put the top down on his convertible, and we drove to the restaurant through the shimmer of heat in the colour-drenched world of high summer.
On the way there, Zack told me that the Stone House had once been the summer home of a wealthy American who had fallen in love with the history and legends of the Qu’Appelle Valley. Fired by tales of buffalo runs, the American had built his house not on the lake, but far above it at a point where a man could have stood and watched the buffalo pour like a mighty and endless river over the hills around him. The view from the restaurant was reputed to be spectacular, but the road there was steep and filled with hairpin turns, and as Zack negotiated them, my nerves were on full alert.
“Without setting foot in this place, I can already see one reason why it’s doomed,” I said. “Don’t restaurants count on alcohol sales for a hefty source of their revenues?”
“They do,” Zack said. “I’ve already decided I’m going to have one perfect martini and switch to water.”
“You shouldn’t have to be the designated driver just because you’re the man,” I said. “We’ll flip a coin.”
“Let’s hear it for gender parity,” Zack said. “If I win the toss, I get to drink as much as I like, and you get your way with my Jaguar and me.”
“I can live with that,” I said.
“Then you’re on,” Zack said as he pulled into the empty parking lot in front of the restaurant.
We were the only clients at the Stone House. The manner of the young woman who ushered us to our table in front of the window was as welcoming as the bright sunflowers hand-painted on her sleeveless shift, but her face was drawn and her eagerness to please brought tightness to my throat.
“Welcome,” she said. “I’m Marian Doherty, and my husband and I own the Stone House. I know you’re short of time, so I’ll bring the menus and your martinis.”
When Marian left, I turned to Zack. “You ordered for me when you made the reservation?” I said.
“Working on the assumption that Ultimate waits for no man, that’s exactly what I did. If you don’t care for your drink, reorder. We’ll dump the martini on the potted plant. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” I said.
Marian returned with the martinis and the menus. One sip and I knew the potted plant was safe. The martini was sublime. The food offerings were even better: homegrown and imaginative.
“Great menu,” I said.
Marian beamed. “While we were renovating this place we planned our menus for an entire year. That was one of the really fun parts.”
Zack put down his menu. “Do you need time to mull?” he asked me.
“No,” I said. “Pickerel cheeks are one of God’s great gifts to this province.”
“So are rabbits,” Zack said. “I’m going to have the braised bunny.”
“With a side order of carrot sticks?” I asked.
Marian laughed. “If you two want to take your drinks and wander around while we get your meals, you’d make us very happy. We’re really proud of this place.”
After she left, Zack turned to me. “Care to wander? It’s not as if we’d be disturbing anybody.”
The Dohertys had done everything right. The hardwood floors gleamed; the deep chintz-upholstered chairs in front of the fireplace offered a seductive invitation to curl up and dream; the garden roses at the centre of each table were dewy, and the unmatched plates and cutlery on the snowy linen tablecloths evoked memories of family dinners generations ago. Everything was flawless, but Zack and I were the only paying customers in sight.
