Sea to Sky (25 page)

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    FOURTEEN

Meredith met Brent Carruthers’ fiancée, Tracy, in the lobby as previously arranged and they took a skiers’ shuttle from the hotel to the base of the Gondola. They made small talk on the shuttle, but both the shuttle and the Gondola were too crowded and noisy for intimate conversation. Meredith — Stella to her companion — was intent on finding out more about Brent Carruthers, and hoped that Tracy could shed some light on his relationship with Mike Irwin. The lovers must have discussed the death of the man who had threatened them with exposure the night before his murder, if she could just get Tracy to open up.

It was a beautiful morning to be on the mountain. Tracy and ‘Stella’ were both knockouts even insulated in ski wear, judging by the looks they were getting from both male and female skiers and snowboarders loitering near the Roundhouse. The building where several mid-mountain restaurants and bars were located was a popular meeting place, especially on a sunny day when skiers could grab a coffee or hot chocolate and sit outside. The two women chose to ski down the Pony Trail as an easy warm-up, then took the Red chair back up to the Roundhouse. Sitting on the chair was Meredith’s first opportunity to get personal. “Your Brent is a total hunk, you lucky girl. How long before you get married?”

Tracy smiled, but it seemed a little forced. “Don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “Since my parents don’t know about him yet.”

“You mentioned that the other night. You don’t think your parents will approve. It must drive you crazy having to keep it secret.”

Tracy shrugged again. “I know my parents are going to like him, once they get over the age difference, but he’s worried that my father will think he’s dating the boss’s daughter just to get ahead in Dad’s company.”

Meredith suspected just that, and wondered why Carruthers would make a habit of seducing the boss’s daughter if that wasn’t his motivation. Some form of payback? “Well, if your dad knows you two are serious about planning a future together, why wouldn’t he want to help your fiancé’s career?”

Tracy sighed. “Yeah, but Brent wants to make it on his own merits. And now there’s something else.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s planning to leave Dad’s company. He’s applying for a new position — more responsibility, better pay — at a different firm and he thinks he’s a shoo-in for it.”

“A competitor?”

Tracy pressed her lips together and ran her finger across them.

“Aw, c’mon. I may be in purchasing but I’m not even in the same industry. You can tell me.” She had researched Tracy’s dad and the company he managed, and she was already aware that some of their product was purchased by the same aerospace companies that did business with Blue Hills Industries. Was it possible…?

They were approaching the top, so Tracy just smiled and turned her attention to getting off the chair. Once off, the two of them skied off to the side, out of the way of new arrivals, and huddled over a copy of the map to figure out where to go next.

Meredith suggested they take a run on the side opposite the Pony Trail, which meant skiing down G.S. to the Harmony Express chair. “We’ll still have time to take the lift back up to the Little Peak and do a nice run down Harmony Ridge before I have to head back to the hotel.”

The run was great. Perfectly groomed snow, not too crowded, the day so clear you could see a thousand miles. Meredith let Tracy take the lead and was delighted to find that her young companion was a good skier and did the run fast enough to keep it challenging. They did a high five and laughed when they reached the bottom of the run. It wasn’t until they were almost at the Harmony Express loading area that ‘Stella’ pointed out to Tracy that this was the lift where the so-called Chairlift Murder had taken place. Tracy was silent until the chair was past the first tower, then she said, “Brent knew the guy.”

“The guy who was killed?”

Tracy nodded. “They used to work together.” They both watched as a snowboarder picked himself up from a face plant on the slope below and to their right, then Tracy looked over at ‘Stella’ and added, “He was a real prick.”

When she didn’t continue right away, Meredith prompted her with a “You knew him?”

“Not personally, but from what I saw of him, it’s no wonder somebody wanted to kill him.”

Meredith asked why, but Tracy said, “It’s pretty ironic. The prick wanted to get Brent fired — he got him fired once before — but now Brent will probably end up getting the asshole’s job.”

Meredith suppressed a smile. “Does Brent have any idea who might have killed the guy?”

Tracy appeared to be considering the question. “I can’t say.”

“You don’t know, or you won’t say?” Meredith asked with a mischievous smile. She was confident that Tracy wouldn’t suspect her own fiancé.

“He has a theory. Just that: a theory.”

“I hope it’s not related to the job,” said Meredith. “You wouldn’t want that sexy fiancé of yours taking chances with his life.”

“Brent wouldn’t be that stupid.”

“Meaning?”

“The guy pissed off the wrong people, didn’t he?” That was all Tracy would say.

Meredith mulled it over on the long series of runs down to the base, the two of them skiing sometimes side-by-side, sometimes one or the other taking the lead. Meredith had already known that Carruthers had issues with Mike Irwin, but she still didn’t know whether the issues were purely personal, or if money was involved. If Carruthers knew — or thought he knew — why Irwin was killed, did he also think he knew who had killed him? Just how much did Carruthers really know, and how much of what he said to Tracy was just meant to impress her? She also wondered if Tracy was about to lose her fiancé to his next boss’s daughter, whoever Carruthers’
real
boss turned out to be.

She said goodbye to Tracy at the base of the Gondola and headed back to the Coast Peaks on the shuttle bus. The windows were steamed up from the warm breath of passengers, and the floor was wet from snow stomped off dozens of ski boots. She was scheduled to report back to her client again in the morning, and wondered if an earlier call was warranted. No, she decided. Not yet. Tracy had planned to grab a quick lunch then spend the afternoon shopping in the trendy boutiques of Whistler Village.

It was time for Meredith to take a run at Brent Carruthers.

As he passed Horseshoe Bay in West Vancouver, Hunter debated driving down into the little village by the water for something to eat. The slice of banana bread he’d accepted from Tom Halsey hadn’t held him for more than the first hour on the road. Normally he would enjoy sitting down for a plate of fish and chips, watching the ferries for the islands off the coast depart and washing down his meal with a pint of ale. Normally, however, he would be in the company of his landlord, Gord Young, a retired medical doctor, and sometimes Gord’s older brother, John, and not in a hurry to get somewhere. Sitting there alone and rushing through a meal didn’t have the same appeal.

He hit the tail end of the line of cars that had just disembarked off the big ferry from Nanaimo on Vancouver Island. There was a knot of traffic headed in the direction of Vancouver but it spread out quickly as he drove east. He tried to remember what his refrigerator held, and thought there was a block of cheddar in the door and a loaf of bread in the freezer. That and a can of soup or beans would have to do for lunch.

He pulled into the driveway of a modest house on the lower flanks of Grouse Mountain in North Vancouver. He lived in a downstairs suite, while the two Young brothers — retired and in their mid-seventies — lived upstairs. At this time of year, they were both in residence, but during warmer months, John Young lived at his property on Shuswap Lake not far from Eagle Bay. Hunter carried his duffle bag down a damp and narrow cement walkway that ran along the east side of the house. It was crowded by the neighbor’s tall cedar hedge and ran downhill toward the ground level entry to the basement. Just as he put his key in the lock, he heard a tap-tap-tap on an upstairs window, so he stepped back and looked up to see Gord Young waving to him. Gord motioned him to come upstairs, and held up a steaming mug of something. Hunter hoped it was an invitation to lunch, and signaled back ‘five minutes’ with an open hand.

Hunter stepped over a few envelopes and flyers that lay under the mail slot, dropped his duffle bag near the door to his bedroom and went over to his desk. He pushed the play button on his answering machine, then slid open the curtain and looked out the window beside his desk. He had a peek-a-boo view of the waters of Burrard Inlet beyond the wet grassy lawn of the back yard.  In the middle of the yard, a skeletal apple tree with a moss-encrusted trunk stretched its bony fingers toward the sky, dwarfed by two immense cedars at the base of the lot.

As expected, there were messages from Helen Marsh about Adam, and from his ex-wife Chris about Helen. There was also a message from his youngest daughter, Lesley, saying “Got a question for you. Call me when you can.” He pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and set it up on its charger, then shrugged off his jacket and headed for the stairs. As soon as he opened the door that separated his suite from the stairway leading to the main floor, his nostrils were flooded with the hearty scent of onions and beef. He rounded a wall into the kitchen and saw Gord scraping a spoon around the sides of a large pressure cooker on the stove. “Please don’t tell me there’s nothing left in the pot.”

The old man knocked the contents of the serving spoon into a bowl on the counter and said, “There’s nothing left in the pot.” He set the spoon on the counter and picked up the bowl. “This is for you,” he said. He wore a pair of baggy blue jeans and a well-worn white and grey sweatshirt commemorating Rick Hansen’s ‘Man in Motion’ tour of 1985. In spite of his age, he still had a full head of brown hair, with just a touch of grey at the temples. He always looked tanned, probably because he was out on a local golf course whenever the weather allowed.

“Gord’s Goulash,” said his brother from behind his own bowl at the kitchen table. He held up a piece of beef on his fork and recited to it.

“Some hae meat and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it,

But we hae meat and we can eat,

And sae the Lord be thankit.”

“Robbie Burns?” said Hunter, accepting the bowl from Gord and carrying it to the table.

“Aye, laddie.” John dunked a chunk of French bread in his bowl and said nothing more. His thinning hair was white, and he was perpetually pale because he avoided the sun, even when he was out at the lake.

“How was Whistler?” asked Gord, joining them at the table. “Want a beer with that?”

Hunter noticed neither of the older men had a beer, so he declined. Gord saw him glance at the coffee pot, and was about to stand when Hunter motioned him to stay seated. “I’ll get it in a minute,” he said. “Whistler was… interesting.”

He gave his landlord the Coles Notes version of the weekend. Gord’s mouth fell open as he listened, then he swallowed audibly and adjusted his bifocals. “A murder suspect. You. That’s hard to believe.” He picked up his coffee mug and added, “You set them straight, didn’t you?”

John stopped eating and looked at Hunter thoughtfully. “The wintry whistler wind,” he said.

“What?”

“John D. MacDonald might have called it ‘The Wintry Whistler Wind’,” said John.

“No, John. MacDonald used colors in his titles. It would probably be ‘The White Whistler Weekend’,” said Gord. “Besides, Travis McGee lived in Florida.”

John just shrugged and went back to his stew.

“And the girl?” Gord asked Hunter.

Hunter’s mouth was full, but he smiled ruefully and shook his head.

Gord nodded slowly. “Just as well.”

Hunter thought for not the first time that his landlord seemed to be the only one who understood him. Those three simple words made him feel more at peace about what had happened with Alora. “Where’s the cat?” he asked, looking around his chair.

“Sleeping on the heat register. You’re safe.”

“Gord’s Siamese is a fearsome cat: she’s called the Hidden Claw,

For she’s the master criminal who flaunts our every law.

She’s the bafflement of Gord himself, and Hunter Rayne’s despair:

For just when he thinks he’s safe from her, the Siamese is there!”

Looking out the window at the sky, John finished reciting his parody of the T.S. Eliot poem, then stood up to take his empty bowl to the sink. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I think I’ll go read,” he said, and left the kitchen.

“Why did you say ‘Just as well’?” Hunter asked Gord.

Hunter’s landlord had left the table, and came back with a cup of coffee for Hunter, followed by a carton of whole milk and a sugar bowl. He sat back down and took a careful sip out of his own refilled coffee mug before replying.

“I wouldn’t go changing my life right now, if I were you.” The retired doctor looked, and sounded, stern. “In my opinion you are exactly who you are supposed to be.”