The Dead Letter (5 page)

13.

This shouldn't take long, thought Anne, hunched over the desk in her
office. She was determined to the set the record straight and set her own mind at ease by locating Carolyn Jollimore.

And maybe Ben was right. Even though the letter pre-dated Ben's time here, he was certain that Charlottetown had no unsolved murder cases, nor did any of the other jurisdictions on PEI. Maybe the Jollimore woman is just some local screwball. An inveterate gossip with an imagination that runs amok. No point jumping to embarrassing conclusions, though. A quick interview with Carolyn would reveal a lot, give her the opportunity to explain her letter, and give Anne the opportunity to explain why no one from Darby Investigations had come to help her if there had been no follow-up after the lost letter.

Anne picked up the receiver and dialled the number Carolyn
Jollimore had included in her letter, but a recorded message said the number was no longer in service. So she flipped through the phone directories for a Carolyn Jollimore listing. No luck. Carolyn Jollimore was listed nowhere.

Okay, then, I guess it'll have to be the hard way.

Anne picked up the phone again and methodically called every
Jollimore listed. After an hour of dialling, none of those who answered admitted knowing a Carolyn Jollimore. As a last resort, she turned to the computer and opened an online directory for Halifax. A couple of keystrokes brought her a list of Jollimores, a hundred or more.

This is going to take forever
, she thought. Then her mind wandered to Dit and Gwen.

Why is he talking marriage? It's so soon. He scarcely knows her. What's the matter with him, she wondered. That's not like Dit. He's practical and down-to-earth and smart…and she's…she's just not right.

She pushed both of them out of her mind, stared at the enormous list of Jollimores as if she suddenly had been confronted by a flash mob of evangelists. Then she dove into it.

Three hours later, she had talked her way from Aaron Jollimore, a musicologist, to Zephyr Jollymore, a Barrington Street stripper. She had made telephone contact with dozens of others and left phone messages for the rest, but, in the end, her efforts seemed futile.

A pang of hunger reminded her that it was past one o'clock. She grabbed a file folder on her desk and headed downstairs to The Blue Peter.

“Club sandwich, dill pickle, water no ice,” she told the waitress and sank back into the soft leather seat. Mary Anne approached and slid into the bench across from her.

“Hey,” she said, “You're late. What's up?”

“Well,” she said and thought for a moment and smiled, “The CEO of Brown Technologies approached me this morning and offered me a contract to do annual background checks on his entire staff. Isn't that wonderful?”

Mary Anne nodded.

“A hundred and thirty-five employees, all males, all professionals, all handsome, all single, all…”

“…fictional?” added Mary Anne.

“You're spoiling a wonderful illusion.”

“Real women don't need illusions. I read that in
Cosmo
.”

“Oh, yeah? So why do you put on lipstick and blush every morning, huh?”

“So I can look my age, of course.”

“And how old are you, Mary Anne? The truth.”

“The truth is that real women have real secrets, and I'm old enough to keep mine.”

“Aren't some secrets better shared with friends?” asked Anne.

“Some better than others. You have one you want to share?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, but I'm not so sure you want to hear it.”

“There's nothing that makes my mouth water more than a secret I haven't been told. Out with it.”

“How about the secret of your vanishing money?”

“I'm all ears, hon.”

Anne pushed a brown manila envelope toward Mary Anne.

“The details are here…a few surprises, too. First, the waitress you thought was ripping you off? The new one? Genevieve?”

“Yeah?”

“It's not her. Kate, on the other hand, is making a sugary sum at your expense.”

“Kate? But she's worked here almost a year…and I didn't notice any drop in revenue until the last couple months. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I can't explain why the losses are recent. Could be a weakness for the slots, bills piling up, drugs. Could be a new boyfriend teaching her new tricks…or maybe she was just stealing less back then, and you didn't notice.”

“How was she doing it?”

“Under-ringing mostly.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“If a customer orders a double, Kate rings in the cost of a single and pockets the difference. If someone orders a rum and coke, she just rings in the coke. She runs the tab in her head and pockets the grift near the end of her shift.”

“Wouldn't I pick up those losses on my inventory check?”

“She probably gets around that by pouring smaller shots for other customers or watering down the bottles when business is slow. I counted her take at $43 from eleven until two in the morning.”

“Thanks,” said Mary Anne. “Your invoice is inside?” she asked pointing to the envelope.

“Consider it an even trade,” Anne said pushing her lunch bill toward Mary Anne. “
Quid pro quo
.”

“Not a chance,” said Mary Anne. “Lunch is on me for the next two months.”

“That'll screw up your inventory.”

“I'll call it a business expense.”

Mary Anne waved to one of her waitresses who brought two coffees and set them on the table.

“What's Jacqui up to these days? I haven't seen her for a few weeks.”

“High school is a big change, but she's doing well…very well, actually. Oh, by the way, we can't call her ‘Jacqui' anymore. It's ‘Jacqueline.' ‘Jacqui,' she says, sounds too much like a boy's name. ‘Jacqueline' is more mature…and sophisticated, so she says.”

“Kids change, don't they? Hell, everything changes. Look at Dit. A new woman. New legs. Thriving business. Who would have imagined that ten years ago? And whaddaya think of Gwen?” Mary Anne added enthusiastically.

Anne returned a sour look.

“What's that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Spill it.”

“I'm not convinced that they're a good fit.”

“How so? She seemed like a pretty good catch to me.”

“Well, look at the way she dresses. She's too fancy. Cocktail dress for a night in…in Charlottetown? Come on.”

“Are you suggesting that The Blue Peter isn't stylish enough for dress-up? I'm offended.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, she comes from Halifax. It's different there. I'm sure she'll blend in…in good time.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“You weren't much different when you came down from Ottawa, as I recall.”

“That was different.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” mocked Mary Anne.

“I still think that something's not right with her,” said Anne.

“Of course. What girl in her right mind would be interested in a handsome, strong, witty, intelligent guy with money? What was I thinking?”

“Now you're making fun!”

“As long as you're talking foolishness, you're gonna give me plenty of material to work with.”

“Where is she staying?”

“I didn't ask. At Dit's, I presume.”

“Isn't that some kind of conflict of interest? She's a nurse, and he's her patient. It's like that Stockholm syndrome or something. Right?”

“Like I said…‘plenty of material to work with,' hon.”

14.

“If you're selling insurance, politics or religion, you can turn around
right now and go back where you came from.”

Edna Jollimore Hibley had received an odd call from an odd cousin in Nova Scotia. Someone was looking for Carolyn, he'd said, and he had given out Edna's home address. Anne had picked his message up on her answering machine, and it led her to Edna's front porch.

Now Edna stood in the open front doorway of her home, her arms crossed in front of her, her feet planted firmly apart, her head tilted like a cat fixated on a mole.

“Carolyn Jollimore?” asked Anne.

“What's your business with Carolyn?” Edna asked.

“It's personal. And private.”

“I'm her sister. You can tell me. What's this all about?”

“It's still personal and private. It's also important.”

Edna stared at Anne like a fortune-teller at her tarot cards, but finally she stepped aside, motioned for Anne to come in, and led her into the parlour.

The parlour was a stiff, immaculate, old-fashioned room. A red and gold oriental rug covered a square in the middle of the floor. Mid-century black-and-white relatives looked back from ornate frames on the wall. A silver tea service gleamed on a side table. Several straight-back chairs and a matching settee furnished the room. Handmade needlepoint pillows rested on the chairs and settee. Each carried a floral theme and an inspiring word like serenity, courage, or wisdom. Edna ushered Anne to the least comfortable-looking chair, while she took her place on the settee.

“Carolyn is dead,” she began. A shudder interrupted the sternness in her voice. It was as if uttering those words would make it true. “It will be eleven years on the nineteenth.”

That unexpected news left Anne nearly speechless. All she could muster in the form of words was, “I'm…so sorry.”

Edna seemed indifferent to Anne's expression of regret and remained distant and impatient. “What's this about?”

Anne took out the letter Carolyn had written and handed it to Edna.

“This letter was mailed just before her death. But it was only delivered to me by the mail carrier yesterday.”

Edna read the letter. Then she leaned forward. She would have toppled to the floor if Anne had not leapt toward the settee and grabbed her. She was conscious but dazed. Anne ran to the kitchen for water and brought it to her. She sipped slowly once, twice, three times and handed the glass to Anne without a word. Then she read the letter again. Her hand trembled. Her eyes were moist. Anne sat beside her on the small couch.

“My name is Billy Darby,” said Anne. “Your sister was writing to my uncle, William A. Darby, who died last year never knowing about your sister's plight. I took over his detective agency a year ago. May I ask how your sister died?”

“An automobile accident. Her car went off the road one night after work. She was coming home…here. She was going to relieve me. I was looking after our mother at the time. She had Alzheimer's. I remember being angry because Carolyn was so late, and I needed to get up early for work the next day. I was a nurse. Then the police called and told me what had happened.”

“It must have been devastating.”

Edna's eyes glared for a flickering second, then softened.

“You have no idea,” said Edna. “She was the only family I had besides Mother. My only friend, really.” Edna looked up at Anne to see if she understood, but realized that she hadn't. “You see, we're not just sisters. We're twins. Identical twins.”

“I was the only child in my family. So I can't begin to appreciate what you…and your mother went through.”

“No, you can't,” she said. “When Carolyn lived…she was…like my own breath. It was like we shared the same soul.” Edna's eyes glazed, sought out a corner of the room, and embraced a distant memory. “After she died, I felt lost…adrift from everything. Sometimes I felt as though I were suffocating…and dying, too.”

Anne took her hand in hers and held it. They sat there side by side for a long time in silence. Edna's thoughts drifted again to memories of her sister, memories of herself.

Anne was the first to speak. “Edna, can I get you some more water? Or some tea?”

“No. Thank you,” she said, her voice stronger now. She withdrew her hand from Anne's, got up, and walked to the window that faced the street.

“Carolyn mentioned a murder in her letter. Do you know what she was referring to?”

“Yes. It would have to have been the murder of a young woman who worked in the same building as Carolyn. It was a robbery or mugging or something. I don't recall the details. They caught someone, though, and he went to jail for it. It was big news at the time.”

“Did Carolyn ever mention it?”

“Why are you so interested ?” asked Edna. She sounded cold again.

“It may sound strange, but…the injustice of it all…the unfairness…it bothers me. A letter goes missing, and a tragedy occurs. I'm sure my uncle could have helped her if he had known. For my part, I think that I'm just trying to come to grips with what happened…to understand it, if that's even possible. But to believe that a simple coincidence can so terribly alter the course of our lives seems almost unthinkable.”

“So, Ms. Billy Darby, you have a philosophical bent. Are you a philosopher…as well as a detective?”

“I'm just confused.”

“All philosophers are confused. They masquerade at being know-it-alls. What interests me, though, is whether or not you're a confused detective, as well.”

“I've got both feet on the ground when it comes to business.” Anne's voice had grown a sharp edge in the face of Edna's bluntness. “Why?”

“Because I wish to hire you. I have trouble accepting coincidences, too.”

“What is it you have in mind?”

“To carry out my sister Carolyn's wishes, of course. She wanted Darby Investigations to help her with a problem, and…now…so do I. Find out if justice was done…or not. Carolyn suspected something. Find out whether my sister's death was a genuine or a convenient
coincidence
. That's all I ask.”

Both women had been unable to discount the close timing between Carolyn's death and the murder her letter alluded to, but neither had spoken of it. Now their cards were on the table, face up.

“You realize, don't you, that after so many years it will be difficult to learn the truth…,” said Anne.

“I do.”

“…and that it may be difficult, maybe even impossible, to find justice, even if we learn what happened?”

“I can live with that,” said Edna, and she smiled faintly.

Anne walked out the door to her car. She hesitated thoughtfully for a moment. Then she drove across the city to the university library.

The University of Prince Edward Island was a collection of brick buildings on the crest of a ridge at the north end of town. The library was a building near the middle of the pack. The grass in the commons area glistened with a fresh soak of rain. Water slowly trickled through deep ridges in the bark of venerable oaks and maples and distorted Anne's reflection in the glass at the entrance to the library.

The microfilm viewer was in a room beyond the check-out and reference desks and beyond the front lanes of computer stations. A librarian retrieved a roll of film and fed it into the viewer, and Anne spun the crank until the date of 19 October 2001 appeared below
The Guardian
newspaper banner. The murder of Simone Villier and the arrest of John Dawson dominated the news on the nineteenth and twentieth. No mention of Carolyn Jollimore's death appeared on those dates, but the morning edition on Monday the twenty-second provided a page-three story and a picture of her wrecked car.

The news story reported that “Carolyn Jollimore, a resident of Mermaid, PEI, died in a single-vehicle accident which occurred shortly after midnight Friday on the Bunbury Road, two miles east of the town of Stratford. Visibility was good, but roads were wet at the time the woman's vehicle left the road and struck a culvert. Emergency response personnel used the jaws-of-life to extract the driver, and paramedics transported her to QE Hospital where she was pronounced dead. Ms. Jollimore was the sole occupant of the vehicle. Alcohol was not believed to have been a factor in the mishap, and an RCMP officer at the scene speculated that the driver may have fallen asleep at the wheel. No witnesses have come forward…”

Despite the reporter's crisp and dispassionate rendering of the accident, Anne felt a queer tingle at the base of her neck that she couldn't account for. She shook it off, finished recording the details in her notebook and left. The afternoon was quickly fading, and she needed a bit more daylight to complete her day's work. When she reached the library's foyer, she saw a familiar figure pass through the turnstile. One hand of the woman supported a shoulder strap attached to a well-laden briefcase. Her other hand carried three books. She was engaged in conversation with a tall dark-haired student wearing jeans and a UPEI sweatshirt.

“Was that Edna Hibley who just came through?” she asked a librarian at the check-out counter.

“Professor Hibley,” she replied, correcting her. “Yes. That was she.”

“Does she teach here?”

“Nursing Sciences, I believe, and a course or two at the Vet College.”

“Can I request some special services?”

“Certainly. What services are you looking for?”

“I need photocopies of all local news stories regarding the Simone Villier murder from October to December 2001.”

“They'll be ready tomorrow morning.”

Anne crossed the bridge to Stratford to look at the crash site. As Anne approached the scene of Carolyn's accident, the two-mile mark on the Bunbury Road, she slowed down, her attention shifting to the terrain along the roadway. The accident scene photo in the newspaper had shown a large field in the background, but for the last half-mile she had passed only loose strings of houses and small stands of trees and brush. Suddenly the terrain opened up. Fields appeared on both sides of the road. Several hundred yards ahead stood the bridge over Fullerton Creek. She eased the car onto the shoulder and stopped.

Then she saw something. A small white cross. It was one of those simple memorials that family members sometimes place along a highway where a loved one has died in an accident. She pulled the car a bit further ahead. Her tires sank into the soft shoulder of the road. She stopped and got out.

Anne walked toward the cross. It had been placed on an overgrown path that sloped from the shoulder of the road to a grain field and traversed a tubular metal culvert in the ditch below.

The wooden memorial was old. Edna probably had erected it a short time after Carolyn's death, but the spot had been cared for recently. The wild grasses surrounding it were clipped. A wilted bouquet of summer flowers lay nearby. Even the paths worn into the field by farm machinery suggested that the drivers had kept a respectful distance from the cross.

Anne's eyes fell upon the grey metal culvert. One end was crumpled, likely by Carolyn's car. Once her vehicle left the road, the impact would have been head-on. The stop would have been instantaneous and unforgiving. The end of Carolyn's life probably would have been sudden and painless.
But none of that would have comforted Edna,
she thought.

Anne surveyed the stretch of highway. In each direction it was straight, open, and level. There were no houses, no distractions—just four or five hundred yards of country road behind her and another two or three hundred to the bridge ahead.

The police were right. There was no evidence here to suspect anything but some driver error. But that didn't allay Anne's suspicions. She knew that Carolyn's last letter had been mailed just the day before her death, and that was something the police had not known and couldn't have factored into their conclusion.

And then there were other incidentals. For example, Anne noted that the accident occurred on a straightaway, not a curve; the road was wet, but the rain had ended earlier that evening; and it was not an unfamiliar road to Carolyn, but one she drove each day; also, it was less than a ten-minute drive from her work to the crash site, probably not enough time to drift off to sleep; and her death happened at the end of her regular work day, not after a double shift or some other peculiar scheduling.
Really
, thought Anne,
Carolyn had faced no natural circumstances which would have caused her death
.

It was possible that all of this was coincidence, but Anne had always been suspicious of coincidence, and this prompted a phone call to Ben. Anne needed a favour.