were short and serviceable, without a hint of polish.
“It’s tough. I was kind of independent, too.” Holly revised her strategy. Here was a girl on the edge of the crowd, quiet, paint on the wall, but perhaps a conduit for information. On the other hand, sometimes these types sucked up extra attention, embellished their stories or even lied to attract a rare spotlight. She moved closer, locking eyes as if they were confidantes. “What’s everyone saying?”
Janice gave a humph. “I don’t pay them any mind. They’re all so stupid. The boys show off like gorillas, and the girls talk about nothing but clothes and make-up. And they read Teen magazine. My parents gave me a subscription to National Geographic.”
Holly had to smile. “So did mine.”
Despite the years gone by and the addition of boys, not much would have changed at Notre Dame. In Holly’s day, even the lunch tables had status levels. She gave Janice an understanding nod. With a more flattering hair-do, a touch of natural makeup for those zits and some less intrusive glasses, she might be a late bloomer...if she got a personality transplant. “High school is an artificial world. I tried to forget it as fast as I could. And you’re a senior now.”
The girl leaned closer. “They’re all losers. They just don’t know it yet.” Her tone was bitter, with an undercurrent of strange confidence. She saw someone in the crowd and brightened. “Do you have any more questions? I need to ask Mr. Gable something.”
Holly set her free and reviewed her notes. She couldn’t see Chipper.
Gable walked toward her a few minutes later. “Have you talked to the students you mentioned? I’ve been making some calls from the restaurant phone. The parents will be at the school in an hour and a half to pick up their teens.” He brushed a hand through his hair and sighed. “God, the place will be buzzing. At least, that’s what happened when we lost two boys to an auto accident last summer. Alcohol was a factor. And speed.”
Holly turned at the diesel rumble of an elephantine motorhome in blinding chrome entering the campground. She was hardly aware of the fact that she spoke aloud. “Now’s the worst part.”
He cocked his head, a concerned smile on his lips. “I don’t follow.”
“Telling the family,” she said, turning to a fresh page. “Do you have an address, offhand? Nate’s the father, you said? Same last name as Angie? I have to ask these days.”
He touched her arm, an honest plea in those grey eyes. “Listen, could I come along? Nate and I have been good friends since I moved to the island. We’ve both raised money for the Lions Club.”
She thought for a minute. This should be her task and hers alone. No shortcuts to this heart-tugging ritual. But Gable knew the man. The father might need someone to stay with him. People often said that of women, but men were equally, if not more sensitive. A man was more likely than a woman to commit suicide after a love affair gone bad, partially because his choice of weapon was more fatal, a gun rather than pills. The romance of death supped from the blood and bone of the young and impressionable.
“I’d appreciate it.” Gable would be the first contact person should more information be needed. There was nothing suave or smooth about him, just an earnestness that proved he cared about his charges. The stereotypical job of vice-principal put him in control of discipline, a dull but necessary job outside of the inner city. Presumably he had his eye on a principalship, either at Notre Dame or another Catholic high school. Even now, were there any woman principals in the parochial system?
He rubbed the bridge of his nose in a thoughtful gesture. This would be a brutal assignment for him, too, she imagined. “Maybe I should call Nate first. Normally we’d be watching the Major League playoffs together. Boys’ night out. Pizza and beer.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the ground.
“Thanks, but we prefer to tell the family ourselves.” Not only was it a courtesy, but in the odd case where the parents might be involved in a crime, it was necessary to gauge their reactions.
Gable paused for a moment, then blew out a breath in frustration. “But I—”
“Protocol.” She gave him a sincere but professional smile. Her vocabulary was beginning to assemble a category of helpful terms which made an officer sound efficient but still human.
“Okay, I guess that’s best.” He pressed his palms together. “Can we meet at the Grant Road turn at four? They live on Rhodenite. Nate works as a senior manager at Costco in Langford, but he has weekends off.” He paused as if something else bothered him. “Sure I can’t even call him? Give him a minute to prepare for the bad news.”
Holly closed her notebook. “Think about it. That would be even worse. Letting the man stew for an eternity, wondering about the details. We’re counting on you to help us do things the right way.”
As they returned to their respective vehicles, she could hear him mustering the youths to pack up. Clearly, the entry of civilian personalities could compromise even the most straightforward situation. She remembered how Ben Rogers had played a distraught family like a sweet piano until he got the necessary information. An older boy had been molesting the neighbourhood children, often through his sessions as a babysitter. The fact that he worked cheaper than the girls had made him popular. Avid churchgoer and boy scout, he was the last person to suspect. The children adored him and his gifts of candy. Apparently he was quite gentle, convinced that his affections were welcome. Recalling that sad monster gave her the shivers.
“I’m going to call in,” she said to Chipper. When the radio failed to work, she added, “I thought we were on West Coast Repeater west of Sooke.”
Chipper fiddled with the controls and shook his head. “It’s in and out like a yo-yo.”
Cells also out of range as expected, they found a pay phone at a service station. Holly didn’t like the feeling of being hung out to dry. What if something went seriously wrong? The techies had been working on the problem for years. At the end of the line, Port Renfrew was stricken when their phone lines went down in storms. Last week a car rushing a patient to hospital had crashed, leaving two victims to the failures of telecommunications along a rocky, forested coast.
Back in Fossil Bay, she and Chipper completed their paperwork at the detachment. Late reports were an officer’s bane. This would be a good test of the man’s determination... and his grammar. Careless errors which emerged in court cast doubt on the investigatory skills of an officer and could toss a case into the garbage can. Ann had left on their arrival, taking her aching back to an early bed.
A few hours later, she rendezvoused with Gable at the busy corner of Grant Rd. Noticing that he drove a venerable VW bus with large flowers painted on the side, she couldn’t help but comment when they parked on Rhodenite Drive in a tidy suburban enclave. “I know,” he said with a grin as he bumped the rusty door with a hockey hip block. “Got it from the collection of an aging hippie draft dodger. Runs an organic farm in Duncan. As old as the Vietnam War, but it still ticks like a Timex. While the weather’s still good, I plan to do some exploring on the island. Strathcona Provincial Park, Cathedral Grove. Come winter, I might get over to Whistler for some skiing.”
The Didricksons lived in a pink stucco storey-and-a-half home, judging from the rounded brown shingles, probably built in the early nineties. A towering monkey puzzle tree grew on the front lawn. As they walked along the bricked path, Holly gazed up at the heavy fruits ready to fall. Late-blooming azaleas and plump rhodos added riots of pink and purple to the tropical effect. Greater Victoria benefitted
