Lane sat back in his chair. “Do either of you recognize the victims?”
They looked at each other and turned back to face him, shaking their heads.
Nigel arrived with a Rolo for Simone and tea for Sarah.
“Thank you,” the women said.
He returned with a Rolo for Lane and a cappuccino for himself, then sat down next to his partner. For a few minutes they all sipped their drinks, wrapping their fingers around the warmth radiating from the ceramic mugs.
Lane focused on Simone. “What does your licence plate mean, exactly?”
“The King lives forever.” Simone took a sip of coffee.
“She’s an Elvis fan.” Sarah put her tea down on the pizza-pan-sized coffee table.
Nigel asked, “Any customers stick out in your memories this last little while?”
“You think this has something to do with my licence plate?” Simone looked at Lane with disbelief.
Lane shrugged. “At this point, we’re looking at any and all variables.”
“Variables?” Simone made no attempt to mask the sarcasm.
Lane said, “Someone put the bodies on your steps. They were placed facing each other.”
Simone pointed a finger at Lane. “They weren’t killed at my shop.”
Be careful. She’s quick. She could still be a suspect, Lane thought. “I’m just saying we’re looking at all possibilities so we can track the killers and not get sidetracked looking at the wrong people.”
Sarah picked up her tea, watching both detectives over the rim of her mug. “The fact is neither one of us committed the murders. I’m trying to think of any reason why the bodies were placed where they were and coming up with nothing so far.”
Simone took a sip of Rolo. “For the last half hour or so we’ve been trying to figure out why the bodies would be left at the back of the store. It’s obvious to us the bodies were intentionally placed facing each other. There’s no blood on the snow, so they were killed elsewhere. But why pick Pages?”
Sarah leaned in closer to Lane. “You’re that Detective Lane, the one who took down Smoke.”
“How’d you know about that?” Nigel asked.
We’re along for the ride now. Probably best to just go with it, Nigel.
“There’s this retired cop who likes to read crime novels and tell Sarah how the writers got it all wrong. And he talks about what’s going on behind the stories in the newspapers.” Simone stopped with her cup halfway to her lips. “You think this case is connected to the Randall murders, don’t you?”
Nigel looked at Lane, who asked, “Who’s your source?”
Sarah said, “People come to buy books, look at books, and some of them like to talk. You’d be surprised how much they tell us.”
Simone stared out of the window, then turned to Sarah. “Do you remember that woman who asked about Homolka, Olson, Pickton, and Colonel Williams?”
Sarah looked at her boss. “You mean the Lulu Lemon bitch?”
Simone smiled, nodding.
Lane concentrated, filtering out the chatter from nearby conversations.
Sarah said, “She came in looking for books on Canadian serial killers. She was pretty upset when we didn’t have them on the shelves.”
“Did you get a name?” Lane asked.
Sarah shook her head. “She didn’t leave a name.”
“Just bad air,” Simone said.
Lane looked at the women, raising his eyebrows.
Sarah frowned. “Most of the quirky people we get who won’t leave their names are tinfoil-on-your-head-paranoid kinda people. They’re regulars. She was a make-the-hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck-stand-up kinda person.”
“Can you describe her at all?” Lane asked.
Simone pointed at Sarah. “About Sarah’s height and weight, and she wore tight yoga pants, running shoes, and a jacket.”
Lane waited.
“There was one thing that was odd.” Sarah looked up through the glass roof at the blue sky. “There was hair stuck to her pant legs. Lots of hair. You know, like the stuff you get on your clothes when you go to a hair salon.”
“Are all of the pictures downloaded?” Lane stepped into their office with a coffee in each hand. He set one down on Nigel’s desk, holding on to the other while waiting to see the pictures from the funeral.
Nigel reached for his coffee. “Almost. Which ones were you wanting to look at?”
“I’ll know when I see them. Let me sit, please.”
Nigel got up so Lane could sit in front of the computer. He began to work his way through the pictures until he got to the photo of the group of women entering the doorway to the reception. Megan Newsome’s face was caught by the camera’s flash, as were the faces of three other women. Only one had her back turned to the camera. Lane pointed at the back of the woman’s head. “Have you got a shot of her from the front?”
“Just this.” Nigel took the mouse, clicking on a photo taken in front of the building. The woman walked out front of the funeral home. She wore a silver fur coat with a hood covering all but her nose. She held her left hand up to keep the camera side of the hood against her face.
“She knew you were there.” Lane sat back in the chair.
“Apparently.”
“We need to see the Randall family again.” Lane sat up straight.
“When?” Nigel backed away from the computer.
“Now. Can you run copies of both pictures?”
Nigel nodded. “It’ll take a couple of minutes.”
Nigel parked half a block away from the Randall home. He and Lane got out of the car, zipping up their winter jackets. The northwest wind froze the nose and ears first, then attacked whatever exposed flesh remained even as the sun shone low in a clear blue sky. Lane looked at the cars and SUVs parked in the driveway leading to the grey two-storey. Then he looked across the street at the newly empty Newsome house. There was a fresh skiff of snow filling in the tracks on the driveway. An evergreen tree hid the front windows. White smoke rose from the chimney to warm the house while the bodies of husband and wife chilled in the morgue.
“Lane?” Nigel waited at the bottom of the stairs leading to the Randalls’ front door.
Lane shook his head and followed his partner up the stairs. Nigel knocked. They stood waiting for thirty seconds before David’s daughter Beth opened the door. She eyed the detectives, opened the door, then closed it quickly behind them. “Thank you.” Lane tucked an envelope of photographs under his armpit as he took off his gloves and toque.
Beth said, “My dad and Aunt Melissa are upstairs packing.”
Lane unzipped his jacket and bent to untie his laces. He stepped out of his boots and stood up. He saw Nigel staring at the empty front room where the air shone with disinfectant.
“We had the house cleaned. You’re the first one to take his boots off. The floors were a mess from the boots and…” She held out her hand. “Can I take your jackets?”
Nigel stepped out of his shoes while Lane took off his winter jacket and handed it to Beth. She continued. “We’re just looking through my grandparents’ stuff before donating everything else. There’s a family in need at the women’s shelter. We got rid of whatever was in the living room.” She took Nigel’s jacket, folding their coats over the back of a kitchen chair. They followed her upstairs to a hallway leading to four bedrooms. “Dad’s in there.” She pointed at the master suite.
Lane poked his head inside a bedroom larger than his family room. He could see the door to the master bath off to the left. There was a Jacuzzi tub at the bottom of a wall made of opaque glass bricks. He saw the back of a tall woman picking through a jewellery box and recognized Aunt Peggy, who was dressed in a pair of stretchy jeans and a black blouse. Lane saw her face reflected in the glass of the mirror atop a dresser made of rosewood. She was intently inspecting one piece at a time. He saw her stuff a gold necklace in a nearby purse the size of a Third World economy. What happened to her cane?