Lane stepped inside the room, hearing a sound to his right. His feet silently crossed the carpet until he stood outside of a walk-in closet. Lane saw the wall safe over David Randall’s shoulder. David had his back to Lane as he reached up, pulling a box down from the shelf. Lane said, “Anything in the safe?”
David turned. “Just the will.” Sweat rolled down the side of his face. He looked past the detective, frowning. “Peg, please leave Mom’s jewellery alone.”
Peg turned, picking up her purse and tucking it under her arm. “She was my sister!” She insinuated outrage in every syllable.
“I told you the jewellery would be distributed to Melissa and Beth first. Then you will have your turn.” David eased past Lane. “Sorry.”
Should I tell him about what she’s got in the purse?
David looked at her purse, waiting.
Peg asked, “What?”
David lifted his eyebrows.
Peg reached into her bag. She pulled out a broach, gold necklace, three rings, a string of pearls, and an antique Love Story dinner plate. She set each piece on the bed.
David said, “Thanks for all of your help. You can go home now.”
Peg glared at him. “I am grieving.”
David crossed his arms.
“My sister died. I need to grieve.” Peg began to wail, wiping at her eyes.
Lane looked for evidence of a wet shine on Peg’s fingers. There was none.
Melissa appeared in the doorway. She looked at the haul on the bed, then at her brother. Lane saw David’s reflection in the mirror. He’s exhausted and finally had enough of Aunt Peg.
“Please leave, Peg.” Melissa began to weep. Her tears darkened the front of her white blouse.
“You never liked me. I changed your diapers when you were little!” Peg stepped through the door. A pair of lacey black underwear hung from her back pocket.
“What’s that?” David pointed.
Melissa caught a glimpse of the dangling undies before Peg disappeared from view. “Mom’s underwear.”
They looked at each other. David shook his head. “She had the same parents as Mom.”
“And apparently the same taste in underwear.” Melissa leaned her head back and howled. At first Lane thought she was crying. Then he heard David’s laughter. Sister and brother pointed at each other. Melissa gasped, “She stole Mom’s underwear!”
“Remember how Mom would just shake her head at the things Peg would do?” David pointed at a picture on the nightstand. Their mother stood between her grandchildren. She wasn’t much taller than Beth. “Remember how she would say, ‘Oh, Peg.’?”
The pair began to laugh louder. The uncontrolled, long-bottled-up laughter was some weird combination of release and incredulity. Their spouses arrived in the room, followed by Nigel and Beth. She looked at Lane with confusion.
“Peg stole Mom’s underwear!” Melissa managed to say.
The laughter bounced against the frosted glass. It ricocheted off the ceiling and walls.
A few minutes later Lane had the photos set out on the bed. Nigel was entering the names of people identified in the pictures.
“Anyone know who this is?” Lane pointed first at the woman in the hooded fur coat, then at the back of her head in another photo.
Melissa shook her head. David frowned. Beth said, “Looks like one of the hairdressers where Nanny got her hair done.”
“Know her name?” Nigel asked.
“Sure. Cori. She works at a place just off of Macleod Trail. Platinum or something like that. Nanny took me there last month for a trim.”
Melissa made eye contact with Lane. “You think she’s the one who killed our parents, don’t you?”
The question sounded rhetorical to Lane’s ears so he didn’t answer. “What about the other people in this photograph?” He pointed at the clutch of women walking into the reception area.
Melissa reached out and touched Lane’s forearm. “I don’t sleep much. My mind won’t shut down. I keep going over conversations I had with my mom. At night I put on my warmest clothes and go out for a walk. I remember Mom telling me about a group of women she knew, and how they were worried because there were five of them left when there used to be nine. They called themselves the Nine Bottles, because they got together one night and drank nine bottles of wine. They asked Mom to join, but she told me she didn’t want to be part of some small-minded clique. Mom hated that kind of shit. She and Dad joined the Rotary Club only after they saw what kind of work the organization did. Anyway, Mom’s hairdresser moved into the shop where the Nine Bottles got their hair done. She talked about how she was glad she didn’t have to have her hair done by the same person who did the hair of the Nine Bottles. She and Donna used to have a lot of talks about it.”
Lane thought, Roll with it. She may be on to something. Sarah at Pages described the hair on that woman’s pants. “Like what?”
“You should really talk with Donna. I just remember general things she said.” Melissa looked at Beth.
“Nanny thought they were losers. The Nine Bottles had to have a girls’ night out every week. They went to the same places for clothes. They went on holidays together. They were always talking behind their hands with one another. When Nanny took me to get my hair trimmed, she and Donna started to laugh at something Donna said. She wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but I heard anyways. Donna said, “They should have their own reality show. Real Housewives of Mount Royal.’ ” Beth looked at the pictures on the bed. “That’s Donna.”
Lane studied the image of a woman with black shoulder-length hair wiping tears from her eyes. She stood apart from the clutch of women gathered around Cori. “Donna’s last name?”
“Liu,” Melissa said.
Nigel said, “Megan Newsome and her husband were murdered last night.”
Lane put his hand on his partner’s shoulder.
Melissa blanched. Beth looked to her father. David said, “Fuck.”
“Go ahead, say it.” Nigel drove along Elbow Drive. They were climbing out of the river valley. The car slipped, then gripped as tires searched for traction. The hard-packed snow had turned to ice after the steady passage of vehicles.
Lane shook his head. What the hell were you thinking?
“You think I shouldn’t have mentioned the Newsomes.” Nigel put his foot down on the accelerator. One tire whirred, whining as it spun on the ice. He backed off the pedal.
“We need to talk with next of kin first.” Lane took a long, slow breath. Getting angry with him won’t help the situation.
“I wanted to know if they were involved in the Newsome killing. That’s all.” Nigel reached the crest of the hill. The Chev began to accelerate.
“Well?”
“My gut tells me they weren’t.”
“What about Aunt Peg?”
“Her I’m not so sure about.” The light ahead turned red. Nigel took his foot off the accelerator. He coasted up to the lights, looking in his rear-view mirror.
“What?”
“Big pickup behind me. You know, knobby tires, jacked-up frame, winch, dark paint. All I can see is the grille.”
With the roar of a diesel engine, the truck moved within centimetres of the Chev’s rear bumper. The truck driver put his foot on the brakes, pressing the accelerator. The wind carried a cloud of coal-black soot forward. Lane undid his seat belt and, as the cloud diffused, opened his door, walked around the front of the Chev, and pulled out his ID, holding it above his head. He slipped on a patch of ice, regained his balance, stepped up to the side of the truck, and knocked on the middle of the door. He stepped right of the door, noticing Nigel had the blue-and-red flashing lights on. Lane felt the nip of the January air on his fingers and ears. He put his free hand on his Glock.