I opened the door I had goosebumps. The damp suit smelled of chlorine. The cops stepped into the foyer.
“I’m Detective Debra Young and this is Detective Wayne Stanton. We understand you used to live in Cloud Lake.”
Detective Stanton was black-eyed and tall with a meanwise smile that poked into one cheek. Detective Young had pink cheeks and a severe blonde ponytail. They held open leather wallets with gold badges on one side and photo IDs on the other.
“What’s the problem?” Behind them, the empty street looked expectant, prying.
“We need you to confirm that you lived in Cloud Lake, in Brampton.” Detective Young’s voice had a pleasant gloss that strove to make you like her even as she extracted something dear.
“That’s right. I did.”
“Good. Did you know Ramona Hawkes?”
Cornered, I croaked a yes, with dread and relief. The Telstar with Ramona’s picture sat in my box, but I hadn’t read about her since that day. I’d avoided the news, too. Without details, my mind had offered flashes of pores, stubble, and knuckles — my body greased with a smell that brought me up to three baths a day. I snapped the bathing suit strap and agreed to let them drive me to the station.
“Ramona Hawkes is accused of a Peel County murder,” Detective Young explained over her shoulder as we headed up Highway 400. Her ponytail draped over the headrest. I studied the handle-free doors. I used to know a guy, Dave Watson, who’d busted free of a cop car by kicking the window out with his feet. “But the South Simcoe station is closer to your house, only ten minutes away. We’d rather talk to you on your own turf.” Suddenly I had a turf. I felt like pawing it.
The air smelled of corn. “Tornado ripped through here a few years back,” Detective Stanton said. “You can see the damage if you know where to look.” We were driving past a break in the trees where the brush lay flat.
They took me to a room with a scarred table and four chairs. Detective Young fiddled with the blind so it blocked the sun and a blue patch of Lake Simcoe then sat at the end. She was tall, and her knee hit the table when she crossed her legs.
“You’re late-breaking,” Detective Stanton said. He spoke with relieved glee, as if he’d expected I’d give him more trouble. “We didn’t know about you until after Ramona Hawkes’s preliminary hearing.”
“How did you find me?” Maybe Ramona had given them my name. I tugged each finger away from its socket.
Detective Stanton looked at Detective Young, who twitched. He leaned an elbow on the table as if he wanted to share a secret, his body poised in the relaxed coil of a practised flirt. His wedding band caught the light like treasure.
“You weren’t in her yearbook, that’s obvious. She had letters and scripts. Your name turned up.”
“Scripts?”
“Scripts with your name on them. It appears you wrote them. Keep in mind your statement could help convict Ramona Hawkes at the trial. Smoke?”
I took one and let him light it. After an easy drag, I tapped the cigarette against the crimp-edged ashtray then held it away from my body. The scripts I remembered, but I couldn’t think of what letters I’d written. I wanted to help but didn’t see how I could.
“How will talking to me make a difference? I knew her five years ago. I have no idea why — or if — she did it. I haven’t followed the story at all.”
“What happened at the prelim is public domain,” Stanton said. He hitched the back of his pants with one hand. Young inspected her nails, cut blunt and left bare, then spoke. “You might want to bone up further at the library, but we can give you the basics.” She had the soothing voice of a shill, and I quickened, alert for loopholes.
“There is evidence that Ramona and James Hawkes drugged and assaulted teenage girls. While Ramona Hawkes is not on trial here for sexual assault, at issue is whether her husband forced her to participate and she killed him out of fear for her own life, or whether she shared her husband’s proclivities and killed him out of jealousy over someone else.”
She twirled the words “someone else” into a question, as if she had an idea of the other woman’s identity but wanted to see how I responded. After all, Ramona had kept my scripts. I must have meant something to her. Maybe she envied me all these years later. If so, I didn’t want to know. Let another friend carry that burden.
“We’re going back to establish patterns, digging up what we can. Every small detail could help.”
“Whose side are you on?” I asked.
“It isn’t about sides, Pauline. We work for the Crown.”
“So you think she did it?”
“There is enough evidence to go to trial, yes.”
“We’d like you to tell us whatever you remember about the times you spent at the Hawkeses’ house,” Stanton said. “What you saw and heard, whatever you observed, however small.”
“But I didn’t know them long.”
“We have one witness who knew them less than a week. Your story has merit. We’d like to hear it.”
“How about some pop? A coffee?” Palms on the table, Detective Young shifted her weight as if to stand. She had a precise assurance that spoke of no disappointments. A leader. A prizewinning girl.
I brought the cigarette to my mouth. Ashes rose then settled on my skirt. These two had the main events figured. I’d have to give them details, tell them what I guessed they already knew.
“Shall we?”
“Okay.” I tucked my hands into my armpits. “But go easy on me. I’m nervous. It’s hard to talk about this kind of thing.”
“We understand. We’ll take it slow, then,” said Detective Young. “As slow as you like.”
“How did you meet Ramona?” Detective Stanton asked. “Give us times and dates.”
“I knew her a year,” I said. “Him less than that. I met them in 1985.” I took care not to say either name.
Detective Stanton asked about touching. Sex.
“What? Will I have to testify? I don’t want —”
“Possibly,” said Detective Young. “Though I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, if it comes to that. What is it?”
“This is embarrassing. I hardly knew this woman and I don’t remember much. My husband doesn’t even know.”
“I’m sorry,” said Detective Young. “Maybe you’ll want to speak someone about that?”
“Isn’t that what I’m doing?” I reined in my smile so they wouldn’t take me for a smartass. I wanted to leave but I had no way to get home.
“A professional, I was thinking. A counsellor. We can give you some names, if you like. So you know, we do sometimes use the statement, no witness. The trial starts
