a Girl Guide.” Which was probably why her father liked it, the serious air it imparted to his frivolous, wayward daughter who only wanted to study art and nothing, as he put it, “real.”
She grabbed her backpack and went out to the garage and looked at the back end of the Civic. Beret, backpack, different coat-it’s not me he’s going to recognize, she figured, it’s this damn car. The garage was her father’s domain-when he was home. The walls were covered with shelves full of tools, hardware, bits of lumber and parts of machines he intended to fix but never did. He also kept his hunting gear out here. Not his guns, but his tents and sleeping bags and a canoe hoisted up on ropes. There was the Vixen Excalibur crossbow he had taught her to use, his longbows, and arrows in various states of repair. His current walkabout must be just a hiking trip, because most of his hunting stuff seemed to be there.
She rooted around on the shelves and the workbench and found an open tub of Polyfilla. She had to pry the top off with a screwdriver. The stuff inside looked usable.
The how-to sites said you were supposed to fill the hole with mesh or wire wool first, but the hole was so small that didn’t seem necessary. She scooped out some of the compound and smoothed it over the damaged metal. It looked about as much like a bullet hole filled in as a bullet hole could look. It would be hard to match the paint, but she planned to bring a couple of tubes back from the college and give it a try.
The tail light was another matter. She had called the Honda dealership and they’d told her they could have the part in two days and it would cost her more than a week’s pay. They took a deposit off her credit card, which with her student credit limit left her about fifty cents’ further flexibility.
She caught the bus up to the college and spent the afternoon in drawing class. They had a nude model-a girl from the drama department with big shoulders and beautiful breasts. Sam wondered for a moment if she might be a little bit lesbian, but then she remembered Randall’s body and the things he did to her and decided it was not possible.
Raffi March, the instructor, went from student to student. It always took Sam quite a while to know what she thought of a drawing, but Raffi always knew right away. He was an enthusiastic teacher, had a boundless affection for young artists, and he was by far the gayest person most of the students had ever met. The boys, in particular, never tired of imitating his flamboyant manner of speech.
“Tisk-tisk-tisk, Miss Doucette. Tisk, tisk, tisk. This is not an illustration class. Algonquin College does not offer an illustration class. This is not Comics ‘R’ Us. We’re here to draw, draw, draw.”
“I am drawing.”
“You’re illustrating.” He pointed with a graphite-grubby finger at her work. “Hard shadows and simple lines will work on a poster or in a comic book, but you’re not developing your skills with light and shade-and you must, must, must develop a finer touch. You’ll never be able to capture subtleties of expression otherwise.”
“Can’t you just use a camera for that?”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” He turned to the entire class and spread his arms theatrically the way he always did when making pronouncements. “This is fine art, people. Fine art. Subtlety is not your enemy. Subtle is not the same as boring. Dare to be dull!”
“But what if I’m not a subtle person?”
“Well, I suppose you could stick to crayons and Magic Markers.”
“Really? Could I?”
Raffi put his face in his hands and wept with a gusto and conviction that made the class laugh. Only the model, half hidden behind her waterfall of blond hair, remained silent.
–
The Highlands Ski Lodge was just outside the city limits off Highway 11. It was the newest of Algonquin Bay’s hotels, and by far the most expensive. It was not visible from the highway. To get to it, you had to drive up a winding road to the top of Highland Ridge, an outcropping of the Precambrian Shield that dropped down toward Trout Lake in the north and offered a lofty view of Lake Nipissing to the south.
The lobby was a grand, high-ceilinged vista of cedar and red carpet. Cardinal and Delorme introduced themselves to the pretty Native girl at the front desk and waited there for the manager. He finally appeared, absurdly young and dressed in a sombre suit that would have looked good on a man twenty years older. His name was David Dee, and he reeked of Scope.
“Mr. Dee, we need to see your registration records for the past week.”
“May I ask what for?”
“We’re following up on a missing person report.”
“Under what name?”
“Bastov. Lev and Irena.”
Dee went behind the counter and stood at a computer terminal and typed in a few letters. His right hand nudged the mouse a couple of times and twirled the scroll button.
“They checked in, let’s see… on Wednesday.”
“They booked as part of the fur auction, right?”
“That’s right. They got a discount, even though they booked our most expensive suite.”
“Have they checked out?”
“No, they haven’t.” Mr. Dee frowned at the screen, his eyes scanning up and down.
“May I see the screen please?”
Mr. Dee swivelled the monitor around. It wouldn’t turn all the way and Cardinal had to lean over the counter to see. There were no entries for car and licence plate; he often didn’t give those himself when he checked into a hotel. “There’s a note here. They ordered room service, breakfast for two for Friday morning, but no one answered the door when it was delivered?”
Mr. Dee swivelled the screen back. “Yes, that’s right. The room service manager charged it to the room and attached this note to the guest file.”
“Mr. Dee, we need to search their room, and we need to do it right away.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“No. But we have reason to believe-”
“You must know that’s not possible. We can’t have police searching guest rooms without a warrant. As long as our guests are registered here, the Highlands is their home. They have the same rights as they would have in their own household.”
Delorme stepped closer and leaned across the counter. “Mr. Dee, the Bastovs’ right to keep their heads connected to their bodies has probably already been violated. They’re not going to get upset if we search their room.”
The manager looked from Cardinal to Delorme and back again. “Oh, my God. These are those people?” His hand rose to cover his mouth. “Oh, my God.”
–
Room 217 looked out over the ski runs. Outside, the lift was hoisting people in goggles and colourful jackets into a sky of deep blue that flashed against the white glare of the slopes. There had been no serious snowfall yet this winter, but the snow-making machines had taken care of that. The room itself was overheated and smelled of perfume.
“I don’t know what that is,” Delorme said, sniffing, “but it’s expensive.”
Mr. Dee stationed himself by the door, hands clasped before him as if he were presiding over a funeral.
In the bathroom, Delorme pointed to a tiny atomizer of Jean Patou and said, “That costs at least two hundred dollars an ounce.”
There was a white leather toiletries case beside the sink on the left, and a tan leather one beside the sink on the right. Delorme examined the woman’s things and Cardinal the man’s.
Cardinal held up a prescription bottle of blue pills.
“I bet those have saved more than one marriage,” Delorme said.
They moved into the main room and surveyed the tops of the dressers, opening and closing the drawers. Clothes were folded neatly. There were several woman’s watches, cufflinks, even a tie pin.
“Guy’s really old-school,” Cardinal said. “I haven’t seen a tie pin since the sixties.”
“They were very thorough about unpacking,” Delorme said, “like they were planning to stay quite a while. I don’t think the fur auction has even officially started yet, has it?”
“The Highlands is a destination resort,” Mr. Dee said from the doorway. “A lot of the fur people book extra
