her arm and yanked her from the flow of runners. “Tell me.”
“Okay, okay, don’t have a fit. I was looking for an envelope. And the letter was sitting right there, so I read it.”
Sitting right there, my eye. “Who else did you tell?”
Her gaze slid away from mine. “No one.”
My fingers indented the flesh of her upper arm. “Who did you tell?”
Still not looking at me, she said, “I was really worried because of Daddy and what he’d say if we didn’t go, or went without you—because you’re the stroke, and it’s too late for someone else to take your place, and I knew we needed you to win a medal.” She inhaled and rushed on. “I was afraid you’d go all moral and resign. And even if you wanted to pay, I didn’t think you had the money.” She smiled. “Daddy always knows what to do, so I told him.”
I blocked her attempt to move away. “Who else did you tell?”
“Carol.”
“And why did you think you had to tell Carol?”
She looked at me as if I’d asked a ridiculous question. “Carol needed to know as soon as possible. If we had to persuade you, she’d want time to prepare her arguments.”
I released her arm.
“What are you going to do?”
“You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?” I launched myself up the path.
After the run and before I showered, I called the hospital, asked for Wilhemina Groenveldt’s room and was told she was in intensive care, and no information was being released. At least she was still alive.
In the shower, as the warm water sluiced over me, I knew I didn’t want to join my team for lunch. But I had to eat. When you work as hard as we do, you load up on the calories. In the cafeteria, I picked up three wrapped sandwiches, two bottles of orange juice and a chocolate doughnut and took the bag back to the residence, where I dumped it on the desk and switched on the radio.
“The police, who are investigating an incident at the Bide-a-While cabins on Highway 5, are requesting that anyone in the vicinity between midnight and five this morning contact them immediately.”
An incident. What did that mean? Someone else had been involved, and that would make it… attempted murder! But had the attempt been connected to the letter? If it was, who could have done it? Not Marshall. He would have consulted a battery of high-priced lawyers and found the information the Children’s Aid had given me. Not Carol. She wanted the eights to win, but it wouldn’t change her life if they didn’t. Not Bobbie. Her father dominated her life—she’d do anything to please him—but I doubted if “anything” included murder. There had to be some other reason: if Wilhemina had threatened me, she’d probably done much worse things to other people.
During our second rowing session I dipped, pulled, lifted, turned the oars and dipped again as I reviewed the facts.
Out of the boat I detoured to the public phone in the hall of the gym and made two calls—the first to Constable Stern, the second to the hospital.
Inside the gym, we headed for various pieces of exercise equipment. I picked an elliptical trainer which faced Carol’s office. I was tired and wanted to click on “a walk in the park”, but if Carol happened by while the electronic printer flashed that info, I’d be in trouble. Reluctantly, I entered “a mountain hike”, set the level of difficulty at “max” and the time at sixty minutes. The machine and I began working our way up an imaginary mountain.
Fifteen minutes later, a plump, middle-aged man in a tan suit marched through the gym to the office.
Less than five minutes later Marshall Johnson followed the same course.
The machine said I still had thirty-seven minutes to go when Carol emerged, looked at her sweating crew and motioned for me and Bobbie to join her. The mountain would have to wait.
The man in the tan suit, who introduced himself as Detective Roston, sat behind Carol’s desk and faced me as I entered. Carol perched to his right and Bobbie sat in front of him. Marshall stood beside Bobbie’s chair. I took the empty seat beside Carol.
“Miss Marks, I’ve told these people that early this morning at the Bide-A-While cabins someone tried to asphyxiate Wilhemina Groenveldt.” Detective Roston paused and allowed his gaze to sweep the room. “Someone wanted her dead. We believe it was because of a letter she wrote to you which these three knew about.”
“I certainly can’t believe anyone would think I was involved in this sordid affair,” Marshall said as he straightened, puffed out his chest and appeared to expand. “As I’ve already said, I knew nothing about this woman, and I see no reason why I should be here.” Fully inflated, he continued, “I’m sure Spike Vinca…” He paused to make sure the detective got his message: that he knew the police chief, James Vinca, well enough to use his nickname. “I’m sure Spike would like to hear about police harassment.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t, sir,” Roston said. “If you object, we’ll get a warrant and have you come downtown.”
“Well, for the moment that won’t be necessary.” Marshall gave a tight-lipped smile. “I certainly don’t want to impede police work.”
“The three of you also should know that Anna Marks investigated the threat and knew it was without foundation. Because she received a new legal identity the moment her adoption became final, her actual birth place had no bearing on her status as a Canadian.”
Bobbie’s eyes widened. Her father frowned and jingled coins in his pocket. Carol, who must have been holding her breath, released it in a long sigh.
Roston’s lips turned down, and he appeared to have smelled something nasty. “Now, isn’t that a surprise for the three of you?”
No one spoke.
“And I have another little surprise. Last night a teething baby woke the young woman staying in Cabin Four. When she looked out the window, she saw a car with the engine running parked near Cabin Ten. And,” he avoided looking at me, “an early morning visitor to Wilhemina Groenveldt’s cabin had the presence of mind to drag her outside and apply artificial respiration. This same woman informed us that when she arrived at the scene she witnessed a car speeding away.”
Carol slid down on her chair. Marshall’s frown deepened to a scowl. Bobbie’s eyebrows lifted, and her eyes shifted repeatedly from me to Carol to the detective and back again.
“What do you drive and were you at the motel last night?” Roston asked Carol.
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she crossed her arms on her chest and slumped down. “A silver Windstar van and no, I wasn’t there.”
Roston’s gaze circled the room. I had a feeling he was enjoying this interrogation. He focused on me. “What make of car do you drive, and were you at the cabins last night?”
“An old blue Honda Civic. I was there at five a.m.”
Bobbie burst into tears.
“Get a grip,”
