In the foyer, a suit of armor stood by the staircase. Dad had always wanted one, who knew why. Her flashlight zeroed in on another door just beyond the armor. This had to be the kitchen. To build one in the center of a house was so like Dad.
Casey reached for the door handle, then spotted traces of blood and hesitated. If this was Dad’s blood, how had it gotten this far? She’d never thought about who cleaned up after the police were done with a crime scene. Was it up to the victim’s family?
Opening the door slowly, Casey stepped inside. A rectangular island dominated the room. She thought she smelled onions. More blood splotched the floor and cupboard below the sink. She stared at the stains. Had the killer come in here to wash up before leaving? With that many strikes to the scalp, a fair amount of blood must have splattered him or her. There was no sign of a dishcloth, soap, or towel, or even dirty dishes. Placing the tire iron on the island, she knelt to examine a slightly squiggly pattern. Made by coarse material? A corduroy trouser leg maybe?
Casey strolled around the kitchen. Had Dad left clues about his life somewhere? She walked around the room twice until she remembered the shelf paper. When Mother still lived with them, Dad used to hide money and his itinerary from her under the lining paper at the back of the cutlery drawer. He’d wanted Casey to know where he’d be, told her that Mother had enjoyed too many wild shopping sprees to be trusted. Casey later learned the real reason for Mother’s desperate need to keep tabs on his itinerary was so she could plan her trysts. Casey had lost count of the times Mother had tried to trick or bully information from her.
She never did learn when Dad had first suspected Mother’s infidelity. But when he caught her in the act with Rhonda’s husband, he wasted no time ending things. “Acknowledge the problem and act quickly,” that was his motto. Having been on the receiving end of this method in her teens, Casey had learned to use the strategy well.
Dad wouldn’t have needed that sort of hiding spot in this house unless he’d planned for her to be here at some point. On the other hand, he had lived with plenty of secrets and maybe hiding notes beneath lining paper was merely the habit of a paranoid man. Casey started on the drawers nearest her. When she reached the cutlery drawer, a tiny bit of one corner felt slightly loose. She removed the plastic cutlery tray, pried the corner up with her fingernail and then peeled it back. She hadn’t gone far when she felt a slip of paper.
Casey slid the paper out and found herself looking at a grocery receipt. The receipt wasn’t large: eight items bought, nothing unusual, but Dad had bought these items about a month before his death in France. On the back, the name “Simone Archambault” had been written in Dad’s familiar scrawl, along with a telephone number. So, they had known each other before that night at Alvin’s All-Canadian Café. Vincent said Dad had intended to tell her about the house. Why had he wanted her to find Simone’s name this way? She stuffed the receipt in her pocket and put the shelf paper and tray back in place. Picking up her tire iron, Casey left the room and climbed the spiral staircase.
At the top of the stairs, the darkness dissipated slightly and she caught a whiff of damp soil. Casey pointed the flashlight on a small atrium in the center of the floor. Six trees dominated the area, two of which nearly reached the glass ceiling. Entwined branches created a collage of leaves. Smaller plants sat on tabletops.
Casey started forward when something struck her shoulder. A second strike on her back forced her to her knees. With the third strike Casey’s forehead smacked the tiled floor. She dropped the tire iron. Someone kicked it away.
With both hands on the flashlight, she swung it against her attacker’s leg so hard the batteries rattled and the light died. A deep voice grunted. She thought of the ponytailed guy. The light blinked back on and she struck again. Her attacker yelled. Casey tried to scramble away but a kick to her ribs made her collapse. She rolled onto her back, dropping the flashlight.
The man lunged for the light, but she grabbed it and scuttled backward along the tiles. All she could see was a dark sweatshirt with a hood pulled so low that it covered most of the face.
He tried to stomp her foot and missed. Casey kept moving but couldn’t gain any ground. He grabbed her ankles, pulled her toward him and knelt down, straddling her hips. The flashlight darted over his jeans, the floor, table legs. His thighs squeezed her body. Hot, bony fingers gripped her neck until Casey rammed the flashlight into his crotch. He groaned in agony and collapsed onto his side.
Casey bolted for the staircase. She took the steps two at a time, leaping over the last three. Gasping for air, she turned the deadbolt, yanked the door open, and raced outside.
Seven
THE WELT ON Casey’s left shoulder throbbed the next morning and her arm felt heavy, as if encased in iron. Her bruised lower back was stiff and sore, but it could have been worse. If the man had had a gun, if he’d followed her home . . . She was fairly certain he hadn’t. She’d checked the rearview mirror a thousand times. On the other hand, if her attacker had been the ponytailed guy, Theodore Ziegler, he knew where she lived anyway. She wished she’d had the presence of mind to aim her flashlight on her assailant’s face instead of acting like a bloody amateur.
When she had returned home last night, she’d called Simone Archambault first, then Stan to update him on events and ask for today off to go to Victoria.
“You know you can call anytime and I’ll do what I can do help you out,” he’d replied, “but it sounds like you’re getting in over your head, Casey. Are you sure Victoria’s a good idea?”
“I don’t have much choice. Simone Archambault is the best lead I have to Dad’s past, and she won’t tell me anything until I prove who I am. Apparently, Dad showed her a photo of me once, so she insists on meeting in person.”
Stan didn’t say much after that, except to say that they still hadn’t found the individual who’d vandalized the lockers.
Casey left her apartment and headed downstairs into Rhonda’s kitchen.
“You’re early again,” Rhonda said, nibbling on a piece of toast. “Going back to the house?”
“No, I have another assignment,” one involving a forty-minute drive to the Tsawwassen terminal, a ninety-minute ferry ride to Swartz Bay, and another half-hour drive to Victoria. Hardly a quick jaunt, but it had to be done. She felt guilty for not telling Rhonda about Simone, but if Rhonda found out she’d want to tag along, and Casey wanted to talk to the woman alone.
“Tell Summer her bike tire will be fixed tomorrow.” Casey headed for the back door.
“Sure.” Rhonda took another small bite of toast. “Want to have supper with us tonight?”
“Actually, it could be a long day, so don’t worry about me.”
“Then you don’t know when you’ll be back?”
“Gee, Mom, I’m not sure.”
“Okay, backing off.” Rhonda put the toast down and raised her hands. “But just one more question, totally off topic. What did Detective Lalonde come to see you about last night?”
Uh-oh. “You knew?”
“I was in the tub when I heard voices outside. Thought it might have been Lou, but when I got out a bit later and heard it again, I peeked out the window and saw Lalonde walking away.”
Rhonda’s en suite bathroom and bedroom windows were at the front of the house above the porch. Casey had been on the phone with Stan when her buzzer rang, and she brought Lalonde up to her apartment so they could talk privately. Afraid to lose what little cooperation the detective had given her, Casey hadn’t told him about her visit to the house. Hiding the pain to her shoulder had been tough.