east of town. His father did carvings and had a small fish boat that took tourists out for salmon and “hali” in the summer. The rest of the year, they put food on their table by selling wood and shooting the odd deer. “Wouldn’t put it past them to have a bait yard with apples. But we can spare a few Bambis. Better than ending up on the grill of a car.” Leaping deer road signs crisscrossed the area, and everyone knew someone who had had a close encounter.
Not long after, Whitehouse returned with a sleepy expression and a trace of ketchup on his upper lip. He must have ordered the cartload of fries. She told him about the Port Renfrew boys. “You can handle that. I’m not driving out to hell and gone.” He left her office and headed for the restroom. Water ran for several minutes.
“Bringing in Jeff Pasquin,” Chipper said in an unusually formal voice. “And his grandmother, Mrs. Faris. The parents are in Vancouver on some legal matters.” His face was without expression, except for a nuance of a rise in one sleek brow. He caught Holly’s glance and gave a silent click to his heels.
“Come in, please,” Holly said. She and Whitehouse had set up in the interview room.
His prim glasses nowhere in sight, Whitehouse sat at the scabbed wooden table while Holly took a chair to the side, once again prepared to act as secretary. She wasn’t averse to learning interviewing techniques. Whitehouse’s experience gave him the advantage. She also realized that she might discover what not to do, and she smiled to herself.
Mrs. Faris, a nervous woman under five feet and bent from osteoarthritis, took a chair with a padded seat in the corner. She wore an old-fashioned housedress and running shoes, one of the toes cut out for a monster bunion. Her pudding face had bright red lipstick and a heavy coat of powder. The atmosphere was charged with tension underlaid by her laboured breathing.
Jeff strutted in and let himself be seated in a cheap plastic stacking chair by Chipper, who then discreetly closed the door as he left. Even four people made a crowd. An old leak in the ceiling from winter monsoons had left a streak down one cinder-block wall. Quick-fix painting had covered the mark, but it reasserted itself like a persistent evil in a Grade D movie. A single yellowed bulb dangling from the ceiling cast an ugly glare on the table. Both Holly and Whitehouse had oak chairs with cushions, a pecking order impossible to ignore. Desultory air currents carried the telltale earthy smell of black mould from under the suspiciously discoloured linoleum. Holly made a note to herself to arrange for budgeting to address that serious problem, a minefield for those with allergies. The building had originally been bought at auction and moved to the site, a cheap deal but a recipe for structural disaster.
Holly noticed that Whitehouse cast a quick disapproval at the dusty light, but kept quiet as if to set the stage. The young man gazed around and gave a theatrical cough at the stuffiness. “So whassup?” He pronounced it like a joke in a slurry, smart-ass fashion. Mrs. Faris cleared her throat in the mildest of reprimands.
Whitehouse shifted his shoulders, sending a masculine message from the lead bull. “No time for showing off. I’ll ask the questions. Corporal Martin may have a few of her own.” Since Jeff was under eighteen, Whitehouse took some time in reading him a number of forms to make sure he understood his rights. Then he asked the boy for feedback on whether he grasped the terminology.
“What’s this all about, anyways?” Jeff asked after he had “passed” the test. He tried to present an open and honest face, but it was a grotesque contortion with duplicity below the pretty surface of a boyish grin.
Whitehouse gave an imperceptible nod to Holly. “Angie’s drowning may have been a tragic accident,” she began with a casual frown. “But Inspector Whitehouse wanted to make sure of the facts. He’s an experienced investigator from West Shore.” And who are we in this third-rate detachment, parking attendants with a more lucrative salary?
Jeff came to with a start, flexing his broad shoulders. He wore dark pants and a white shirt, apparently the school uniform, but the musculature underneath left little to the imagination. His strong young neck had a flashy gold chain.
“Why me, then? This is nuts.”
“Some of your friends say that you weren’t too happy with Angie lately.”
“Hey, I never hit a woman in my life. Only cowards do that.” Whitehouse stuck out his chin, his voice like a cobra hiss.
“Nobody said anything about violence. Seems to me you’re rather defensive.”
Despite her efforts to remain neutral, Holly approved of the inspector’s score.
The boy shot back. “I take psych, and I get your point, but you’re way off. We dated last year. This year we were history. Happens. ’Sides, I was in my tent with Lindsey Benish. Ask her. She’s got the guts to tell you the truth.”
And to lie for you, Holly thought. Small wonder that spouses were not allowed to testify against their mates in court. The whiff of a conspiracy piqued her interest. Holly scanned the list of those they had interviewed at the park. She tried to picture Lindsey and came up with a brash, unlikable girl. “Benish, you said?”
Whitehouse clicked his pen. On. Off. Three times like a mantra. “Say she backs you up, any other suggestions? Who else might have seen Angie after dinner?”
“Try Kim Bass. Angie had a crush on her.” A sharp intake of breath came from the officers, but Mrs. Faris wore a bland expression, perhaps not following the implication. Aware of the repercussions from that depth charge, Jeff gave a contemptuous snort. “Lezbo. What a waste. They all oughta be fat, ugly cows.” It seemed to Holly that he gave her an oblique look.
“Mind your language. Your bigotry is showing. And show some respect for your teachers. We’re not here to discuss idle gossip.” Whitehouse leaned forward and made a note, circled it. “Anything of substance to your charges, or are we talking only about your own self-doubts and shortcomings.”
“Nothing short on me. I was with Lindsey all night. Get my drift? We made a deal with our tentmates and traded off.” He lowered his voice in a conspiratorial fashion that made his grandmother’s face puzzle. At least, he seemed to have some sense of shame in front of her.
Jeff ’s bravado was slipping. He began examining his short fingernails, sucking on one. Holly noticed that it was broken to the quick. “That must hurt,” she said.
Abruptly he folded them on his lap. “Did it diving down to get a rock crab. Stupid thing died later.” Then he smiled at her with straight white teeth, the incisors slightly pointed. “They’re nice and red in the ocean. Get them home, and they fade right out.”
“I wonder why,” Holly whispered. Whitehouse was checking a thick day-timer with a tooled leather cover. His squint was evident.
She wondered if Jeff had any idea of the sinister nature of his reflections. Then Whitehouse stood and clapped the book shut. “Constable Knox will take you back now, Jeff. If there’s anything else, we’ll get in touch. And Mrs. Faris, thank you for coming.“
The older woman rose with a small groan and nodded. “Jeffrey, I hope you told the truth.”
“’Course I did, Grans. That’s what you taught me.” Jeff lifted himself from the chair with a smirk on his sculpted lips, good-looking in a superficial way. He made a show of offering his grandmother his arm as he asked over his shoulder, “Aren’t you going to tell me not to leave town?”
“Just leave here for now,” Whitehouse said, and called, “Constable
