Grave Situation (24 page)

An oil painting hung above the
fireplace. Arranged in a traditional standing pose before a pastel
background was Philip Ambré at a younger age, conservatively
dressed in a gray suit, crisp white shirt, and red tie.

A dark haired woman, Allan guessed
as his wife, Carol, flanked Philip’s right side. She wore a blue
blouse and a white pleated skirt. Two young girls, one with black
hair, the other, blonde and a head taller, knelt in the foreground.
Both wore matching flocked organza dresses.

The resemblance between mother and
youngest daughter was striking. Slender, china complexion, full
mouth, streaming raven hair and vivid green eyes. Comparing the
beautiful girl Cathy Ambré had once been to the image of the
ravaged woman in her final moments, Allan winced at the
disparity.

And how will I be
remembered?

Behind him, Philip said, “I had
that done in nineteen-ninety-three. Cynthia was ten, Cathy, six.
The artist was Joseph Hoegg. Well known here in Halifax. He did
that from a mere photograph.”

“Impressive.”

Framed pictures of the Ambré family
were neatly positioned across the mantle. Studying them, Allan
realized none contained the oldest daughter, Trixy. Many were of
Cathy at various ages—a little girl sitting in a pile of autumn
leaves, head thrown back in laughter; a junior high student smiling
for her yearbook photo; a high school graduate in cap, gown and
honors stole. At the far end was an old black and white wedding
photo cast in a sepia hue. Parents of either Philip or his wife,
Allan guessed.

“This is about
Cynthia, isn’t it?” Philip asked at last. “Or
Trixy
as she’s been calling herself?
We read about her disappearance in the paper. I must admit your
coming here has been something I’d been expecting for a long
time.”

For a moment, Allan closed his
eyes. Then he turned around and folded his hands in front of him.
Carefully, he selected his words. “I’m afraid not, Mister Ambré.
This is about your other daughter.”

“Cathy?
” A glint of fear sparked in
Philip’s eyes. “What happened?”

Allan deflected the question. “Is
your wife here with you?”

“She’s in bed.”

“I think it best the both of you
hear this.”

Just then a female’s voice sounded
in the room. “What’s going on, Philip?”

Both men looked.

The woman who stood in the doorway
wore a white terry robe and matching slippers. She was the one from
the painting, Allan realized, only older now. Staring at her, he
saw the handiwork of time. Her black hair was gray-streaked. Hard
lines scored the corners of her mouth and eyes. As she regarded
Allan, a combined look of surprise and apprehension came over her
face.

Silent, Philip crossed the room to
her side.

“Carol. This is…” He blinked and
looked at Allan. “What’s your name again?”

“Lieutenant Allan
Stanton.”

Philip turned to his wife again.
“He has some news about Cathy.”

“Cathy?
” The mother straightened.
She put a hand to her chest, pulling the lapels of her robe tightly
together. “Your being here this late tells me it’s not good news.
Our daughter overdosed, didn’t she?”

The question carried a nervous
inflection. There was no easy way to explain this, Allan
reasoned.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. “Your
daughter, Cathy, committed suicide.”

Tense, he watched his words
register in the parent’s faces. All at once, Philip’s mouth dropped
open. He stared down at the floor, his face a pantomime of shock.
Carol blanched. Tears welled in her eyes. Her lips began to
flutter.

Half-choking, she
stammered, “Not Cathy. Not
that
way.”

Allan swallowed. “I’m
sorry.”

Hand to her mouth, Carol stifled a
cry. Then she fell into her husband’s embrace. In silent
commiseration Philip put his arms around her, pulling her close.
The only sound in the awful silence was the sobbing of Carol Ambré,
muffled by her face being pressed into her husband’s chest.
Philip’s eyes shut and he whispered words into his wife’s ear that
Allan couldn’t hear.

Carol leaned back and wiped her
eyes. “I need to call Mom and Dad,” she said brokenly.

Philip took her hands. “There’s no
need to burden them with this tonight. Call them in the
morning.”

She looked away from him. “No. They
need to know. I won’t be able to sleep tonight anyhow.”

As Allan listened, he found it
deepened his own sadness. Carol pulled away from her husband and
walked out of the room. Philip turned to Allan with a ravaged
face.

“We just spoke to Cathy on
Monday.”

Allan’s voice was soft. “How’d she
sound?”

“She was upset over Cynthia. But
said she’d get through it. I never thought she would end up doing
something like this.”

Allan took a seat on the sofa. The
leather felt cool through his clothes.

“Suicide is never easy for family
members to comprehend,” he said. “Don’t blame yourself for
this.”

Distractedly, Philip ran a hand
over his chin. “Do you know when she killed herself?”

“Sometime during the early morning
hours of Tuesday.”

In the silence that followed came
the mournful wail of Carol Ambré. Hearing it, Philip started. Allan
leaned forward, lowering his head. All of this made him sick
inside.

“I know,” she was saying. “I don’t
know why either.”

A shiver seemed to run through
Philip’s body.

In a tentative voice, he asked,
“How’d she choose to do it?”

Allan considered how much to
disclose. “With drugs.”

With aching slowness Philip seemed
to toil with the understanding. “Did she leave a
letter?”

“Yes. We need to have it examined
for authenticity. After which, we’ll release a copy to
you.”

Philip’s jaw worked. “Did she
explain why?”

“I think your daughter has been
dealing with inner demons for some time. Her addiction only
compounded her problems and was probably conducive to her
depression.”

“I believe it contributed to all
of her problems,” Philip said.

“I think so too,” Allan agreed.
“Do you know how long she was using heroin?”

Philip rested his palms on the back
of a chair. “At least a year. That’s what she told me in January.
But I suspect most of her final year in university. When she came
home for the Christmas break in two thousand eight, I saw changes
in her. But I chalked it up to the stress of her
classes.”

“She never finished that
year?”

Philip shook his head. “She dropped
out in May of last year. She wouldn’t have graduated anyway. I
tried to get her to go back last fall, but she refused.”

“Did she explain why?”

“The drugs, probably. Just like
they were the reason she failed her final year. Cathy never had
failing grades in her life.”

“What’d she do for
money?”

“She went to work at a couple of
retail stores. She lost the last one in November because of
absenteeism. She didn’t work again until this past January when she
got a job at a hotel.”

Allan remembered the entries in
Cathy’s diary. “When did you suspect she was using?”

“Late last fall I began to have
thoughts of it.” Philip’s face became haunted now. “Cathy stopped
hanging out with her friends. Began to stay in her room a lot. She
was losing weight. Seemed tired all the time. And at other times
she just seemed out of it.

“Just after the new year, I found
some spoons hidden under her mattress. I confronted her about it.
That’s when it all came out.

“No responsible parent would ever
give their child a loaded gun to play with, Lieutenant.” The quiet
in Philip’s voice didn’t hide the tremor. “By continuing to give
Cathy a place to live, food to eat, we were, in essence, funding
her addiction.

“I don’t think you realize what we
went through. Imagine watching your own daughter kill herself. We
could see Cathy’s health deteriorating right before our eyes. But
she couldn’t see it in herself.

“I checked out rehab facilities
for her, but she refused to go. I practically begged her to get
help. I tried to convince her that she had a bright future ahead of
her, that she should go back to university. I didn’t want to lose
another daughter. And I thought I’d gotten through to her. She told
me her problem wasn’t serious and she stopped. But later I found
out that she was still using.”

“She did try to stop, Mister
Ambré,” Allan interjected. “You need to understand that it isn’t
that easy. You weren’t reasoning with your daughter; you were
reasoning with her illness. Addicts are powerless to the drugs.
Sometimes it requires tough love before they’ll admit they have a
problem and seek help. It may not seem like it now or even then.
But by putting her out, you could’ve been doing the best thing for
her.”

Philip’s mouth
fell open. “You
knew
about that?”

“She told me. Unfortunately, her
older sister provided her with another safety net by taking her
in.”

Philip dropped his gaze to the
chair. “It damn near killed me to put Cathy out.” His voice broke,
then recovered. “It was the hardest thing I ever did.”

“What about your other daughter,
Trixy? Have you seen her at all during the last while?”

“Not in probably
three years. Trixy…” He caught himself.
“Cynthia
was different than Cathy.”
Memory entered his words now, slowing his voice. “Cathy was more of
a reserved child, always focused on her studies. She was bit of a
bookworm. Daddy’s little girl. Cynthia was the total opposite. When
she hit her teen years, she became defiant, a bit on the wild side.
I blamed it on the crowd of riffraff she ran with. She became bored
with school and her attendance dropped off. Teachers used to call
me at work to tell me she’d been skipping
classes.”

“How were her grades?”

“In high school they were
borderline. She failed a lot of classes. It took her two extra
years of grade twelve to get enough credits to graduate. Her just
going back those two years surprised me.

“Cathy, on the other hand,
excelled in school. She graduated with honors.

“After high school, Cynthia
decided she wanted to go out and work instead of continuing her
education. I offered to put her through university, but she would
have none of that. She said she wanted to make money, to go out and
live on her own. That she was never the bookworm type. Nothing in
university interested her.

“Soon after that she landed a job.
She told me it was as a waitress at a bar over in Bedford. She used
to leave here at suppertime and not get home until four or five the
next morning. I found out shortly afterwards that she wasn’t
working as a waitress, but as a dancer at a strip club in
Dartmouth.

“I confronted her about it and she
told me it was her life and she’d do what she wanted to. The money
was too good to give up. She made more in one night than she could
in a week somewhere else.”

“Were drugs ever
involved?”

“Not that I know of.” Philip
shrugged. “Who really knows? I scarcely saw her during that time. I
worked through the day, she at night. We never crossed paths much.
I think she made every attempt to avoid me.”

“How’d she make her way into
prostitution?”

“I don’t know that either,
Lieutenant. She left the strip club after dancing there for about
two years. I don’t know if she left on her own accord or was fired.
Maybe she was into prostitution even then. All I know is that her
attitude seemed to worsen after she left the club. I found out
about the prostitution when she got arrested one night. Your guys
called here.

“I don’t know how to tell you what
that was like to find out your daughter was a hooker selling
herself on the streets. The strip club was bad enough.” His voice
was low, shamed. “It nearly floored me. Especially how well I
provided for her. I tried to talk her out of it. Offered her money
to stop. But the more I tried, the more defiant she became.” His
throat worked and his eyes misted. “It’s like she hated me for
something I did and was trying to get me back. I tried to raise
both of my daughters properly. I don’t know what mistakes I made as
a parent. I beat myself over it for years since.

“One morning I simply asked
Cynthia to leave. And she did. We haven’t spoken to one another
since.”

Philip moved from the chair now.
Walking to the window, he gazed out at the darkened street. For a
long time he was silent, a prisoner to his own thoughts and
emotions. Then he turned and Allan saw the fresh concern in his
eyes.

“Do you think I’m a bad
parent?”

Allan remained quiet for a moment.
He knew there were no words adequate enough to lift this man from
the depths of his guilt.