it with a speed check in the French Beach area. Sun’s back out. Good travelling weather.”
“French Beach. Good idea. The locals have been complaining to Ann.” He looked at her uncertainly. “But the boys. By yourself? Do you want—”
She shot him a cool, sideways glance, and he backed off. “I’ve made a preliminary call.” She explained that Billy’s mother had sounded worried, until Holly had insisted that they were talking to everyone who’d been around the park that night in hopes of finding someone who’d seen Angie riding the bike.
They took the bill to the counter in the adjoining bakery where she picked up an apple pie and a loaf of seven-grain bread. “Routine. Do people still believe that? It’s such a cliché on television and in movies,” Chipper said.
“Even if it turns out that they were on the beach, we can’t haul them in like felons unless we have a good reason. And don’t forget that relations between the races have been prickly lately.” In Sooke, a native man had been seen sleeping on a cardboard mat. Since he was in a bushy area with makeshift shelters where the homeless crashed behind the dumpsters at the Evergreen Mall, he was ignored. By the time he was discovered to be in a diabetic coma instead of drunk, he came close to dying. A tragedy borne of neglect. Good Samaritans were vanishing in a fog of perceived danger or possible lawsuits.
“That sounds like a double standard. We already brought in the two students from the high school.”
She cleared her throat. “Because they were directly involved that night...or part of an alibi.”
Back at the office, Chipper began reading the latest bulletins. Ann was under a pile of paperwork, requisitions for stationery and equipment. “It’s so quiet here that I heard a hummingbird outside,” she said. “Guess they didn’t all head for California.”
Just as Holly was leaving with the radar equipment and ticket pad, Ann answered the phone. A few tsks erupted while the other party talked in a voice nearly loud enough for all to hear. “We’ll send someone right out,” she said and hung up. “More theft from a construction site in Shirley. Six new strata homes with ocean views. Big money. But it’s remote, so no one’s minding the store at night. Broke into a metal storage shed. This time it’s a generator, nail gun, a small table saw and a houseful of exotic hardwood flooring.” Shirley was a small community formerly known as Sheringham Point after the picture-perfect lighthouse on the bluffs. When it had got its own post office, the name was too long for a stamp.
Holly whistled. “And they’d need a truck to haul that equipment.” She turned to Chipper. “Take the Suburban and canvass the nearest neighbours. Ask the guys at the volunteer fire station. A few of them sit out front around lunch time. See if you can get any latents in the place where they broke into the shed.” Thanks to his bush postings in Saskatchewan, Chipper had SOCO training.
He rubbed his neck. “A construction site? Fifty people have had their hands on things, not to mention deliveries.”
She shook her head. “I know, but we could get lucky running them through CPIC. They should haul out an on-site trailer and hire a guard. A junkyard dog’s no use if the place isn’t fenced.” The Canadian Police Information Centre catalogued the names of anyone currently accused, cases pending, probation and criminal records.
She headed back down West Coast Road, the window open, enjoying the warm breeze and the bright sun. In the summer droughts, when they held their breath that forest fires wouldn’t start in the bone-dry duff, even logging was halted in the sere woods. Then the fall and winter brought exponential rains. Finally the precipitation slowed as March brought daffodils. Or so it had gone. Global warming was causing new weather patterns, and they weren’t pretty. Her father had told her of a rare storm last April. One hundred millimetres of rain in a day. Some blamed the clouds of pollution from coal-power generation in burgeoning China.
Still uncomfortable from stuffing at the trough and feeling dangerously like a snooze, Holly settled in about five kilometres east of Fossil Bay. She cozied the car behind a rickety fence once belonging to a farm hacked out of the wilderness and now reclaimed by brambles and salal. Big city units had the new Stalker LIDAR laser guns, better suited to dense traffic areas. She used the old Basic Handheld K Band Radar, heavy but reliable. Some alert drivers saw her in time and braked quickly, slipping under the radar. Others must have been gawking at the stunning oceanfront or listening to music. Along with several gentle warnings, two of the three tickets went to tourists, one in a rented Mustang and the other in a Buick. The most satisfying citation tagged a yee-haw roofer flying low-level at 110 kmh in a battered Ford pickup. Like a primitive telegraph, the message would be received from other drivers, who observed the ticketing, that speeding in this area was unwise today.
Finishing the paperwork in a moment of pristine quiet, she recalled an article about the life of an average American officer in an urban department. “Twenty-five recently-dead bodies, fourteen decaying corpses, ten sexually assaulted children, and serious personal injury at least once on the job.” Having refilled the government coffers and made the road safer, she closed down the unit and headed west for forty-five minutes. She was two kilometres short when she was flagged down near a shiny Toyota Sienna van. A balding man dressed in baggy shorts and a Yankees sweatshirt braced himself against the vehicle, while a woman of a similar age sat crying in the passenger seat. By the side of the road, a small deer lay still in a pool of blood. “Didn’t mean to hit it. The poor thing came out of nowhere.”
This year’s fawn, all legs and hardly as large as a dog. As she bent over to look, the only living thing was her figure reflected in its glazed eyes. A brief candle snuffed out. At least no one was hurt. Roosevelt elk exacted a higher price. She glanced at the dented hood. “Happens all the time. I can help with your insurance claim.” She gave him her card, grateful that the animal was out of its misery. Standard procedure in critical cases was to use the shotgun.
“We’re from New York City. Zoo’s the place we see deer. What should we do with it? Are you going to send for the SCPA or whatever you call...”
“Since we’re out of the town limits, it’ll remain where it is, as long as it’s off the road. Even dead seals on beaches are left for the tides.” She noticed that he looked disgusted. “Tell you what. Help me haul it deeper into the woods. Cougar or bear will probably come shopping.”
His voice skyrocketed as he looked around. “Bear? Cougar?”
The disposal didn’t take long. Holly pulled some towelettes from the console, and they cleaned up.
Billy Jenkins lived at the end of a long rutted road a few miles east of Port Renfrew. A homemade plywood sign at the turn advertised “Woodworking. Native carvings. Fishing Charters” with an arrow. Holly took care not to let the ruts damage her undercarriage but winced at the occasional thump. In a bigleaf maple tree festooned with lacy strands of witch’s hair, a barred owl greeted her, usually a night bird but at home in the luminous curly hynum moss which coated the tree like a bayou beauty. A brown hare hopped to safety.
At last she came to a small clearing. Large firs had been trimmed or topped to prevent damage in a windstorm. In the yard, a circus of carvings caught her eye with their skill and majesty. Several rampant bears pawed the air. Despite the fact that totem poles had a more northerly origin, artful sculptures of all heights surveyed the quiet kingdom. Smiling in admiration, she discovered an eagle, a raven and a turtle on the posts. Two carved chests would make ideal storage for sheets and blankets. An artist coaxing buyers down this road probably did a good business in the summer.
The cabin with add-ons was painted a bright blue, a complement to the green moss which coated its cedar-shake roof. A huge woodpile was tarped beside it. On the shady side,
