It wasn’t the biggest house on the block, not by a long shot, but it was big enough. Appropriately, it had a vaguely Spanish look, stone and stained wood and glass, with a terra cotta tile roof and deep eaves. A nice house, I thought, that I might be able to afford in my wildest dreams, but not otherwise. It was surrounded by mature trees on a good-sized lot, modestly landscaped with rock gardens and a water feature, but uncharacteristically devoid of topiary, which was abundant on the adjacent properties. The house next door to the Waverleys’ had a small cedar clipped into the shape of a poodle with puffball legs, chest, and tail. The things people will do to innocent trees and animals …
There was no car in the Waverleys’ wide cobbled drive in front of the attached three-car garage, but as I sat wondering what I was going to do, a dark green Volvo Cross Country went past me and turned into the driveway without signalling. Brake lights flashing, it stopped in front of the garage, driving lights bright on the stained-wood doors. A woman got out, leaving the door open and the engine running, and aimed something at the garage. A remote door opener, I presumed. When nothing happened, she leaned into the car, turned off the engine, then swung the door shut. The car horn bleated and the lights flashed as she walked away from it toward the front door of the house. She was wearing an athletic top, shorts, and high-tech runners. Her upper body was slim, almost petite, while her hips and rump were nicely rounded, legs elegantly tapered. Despite what Witt DeWalt had said, I thought her centre of gravity was fine just where it was.
Now what? I wondered. I couldn’t sit there long. It was a fairly exclusive neighbourhood. Sooner or later, most likely sooner, someone would get worried and call the police. Maybe they wouldn’t wait until they were worried. So I started the Liberty, put it in gear, and drove into the wide driveway, parking beside Anna Waverley’s Volvo. The boxy Liberty and the sleek Volvo looked good together, I thought, as I walked to the front door. Maybe they would mate.
There was a little box with button and a speaker grill by the front door. I pressed the button. A far-off chime sounded, like church bells. A moment later a woman’s voice crackled from the speaker.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Waverley?” I said. “Mrs. Anna Waverley?”
“Yes, I’m Anna Waverley. Who are you?”
“Mrs. Waverley, my name’s Tom McCall. I’d like to speak with you, if you don’t mind.”
“You don’t have to shout into the speaker, Mr. McCall. I can hear you just fine if you talk normally. And if you stand back a bit, I’ll be able to see you.” I stepped back. “Look up, Mr. McCall. Look way up.” I looked up and saw a glowing red dot beneath the lens of a small video camera. “What would you like to talk about?”
“We could start with old children’s television programs,” I said. “I used to watch The Friendly Giant, too.” Silence. “Mrs. Waverley?”
“I’m still here. I’m waiting for you to get to the point. You’ve got thirty seconds. Then I call the police.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, I know who you are. You’re that photographer whose assistant was attacked and thrown into False Creek. I feel just awful about that, Mr. McCall. I really do. But if you’re looking for some kind of compensation, it hasn’t anything to do with me or my husband, despite the fact that the woman who hired you evidently used my name.”
“It’s not about money,” I said. “It’s about my friend lying in the hospital in a coma. I’d just like to talk to you for a few minutes, to see if there’s anything you might be able to tell me that will help me figure out who attacked her.”
“I’ve already told the police everything I know,” she said. “Which is nothing.”
Her voice had an odd stereophonic quality, as if it were coming from two places at once. I realized that she must be standing on the other side of the door and that I could hear her voice through the mail slot as well as the intercom speaker. I moved closer to the door. “Mrs. Waverley,” I said, speaking up slightly, but keeping my voice calm and even and as reassuring as I could. “Someone who said her name was Anna Waverley hired my partner and me to take photographs of that boat. The police have evidence that my partner was attacked on the boat, before she was thrown into False Creek under the Burrard Street Bridge to drown. I’m sure that neither you nor your husband are involved in any way, but I would nevertheless appreciate it if you could spare me a few minutes of your time. I’m just trying to understand why Bobbi was attacked. The police aren’t getting anywhere. I —”
A chain rattled and a bolt clicked and the door opened.
Anna Waverley was a handful of inches shorter than me, with wavy reddish-brown hair worn short, rectangular hazel eyes, and a long, straight nose. Her most arresting feature was her mouth. It was wide and slightly crooked, and her lips, which were full and almost too straight, had a bruised quality, like overripe plums. It was not, I thought for some reason, a mouth that smiled often. Matthias had told me she was forty-five, but she could have looked much younger, if she’d tried a little.
“I don’t know what I can tell you, Mr. McCall, but come in.” She stepped back, holding the door open. “Please excuse the way I’m dressed,” she added as I went into the house. “I just got back from a run.” She closed the door. “This way, please.”
From the outside the house had looked spacious, but inside it seemed dark and cramped. It wasn’t that the rooms were small — they weren’t — but the front hall and the living room contained enough heavy, ornate furniture for three houses. Likewise, the dining room. Anna Waverley read my expression.
“I’m afraid my husband regards this house more as a warehouse than a home,” she said. “Come through this way. We’ll be more comfortable in the day room. Would you care for a glass of wine? Or something stronger?”
“Wine is fine,” I said.
She excused herself and left the room.
The day room wasn’t quite as big as the living room, but contained less furniture. What it did contain was eclectic and casual and comfortable. There was a big, blond wood entertainment unit containing a medium-sized flat-screen TV, a DVD player, and mismatched but high-quality stereo components. One wall of the room was mostly glass. Sliding doors opened onto a patio surrounded by semitropical plants in big terra cotta planters and beds of live bamboo and overshadowed by a towering magnolia. An ornate Victorian dining table by the windows looked as though it had seen better days, the finish scarred and cracked. One end of the table was piled high with magazines and newspapers and books. At the other end of the table, a white Apple laptop sat atop a four-inch stack of volumes from an old set of the Encyclopædia Britannica, raising the screen to a more comfortable height to use with the external keyboard and mouse. The computer’s power adaptor was plugged into a heavy-duty orange extension cord that snaked across the flagstone floor to an outlet by the entertainment unit.
Mrs. Waverley returned carrying a tray loaded with a bottle of red wine, a bottle of white wine in a sweating beaten-silver cooler, and two tall wineglasses. She set the tray on a massive Spanish-style coffee table. In the short time she’d been out of the room, she’d also managed to brush out her hair, apply a little makeup, and change into jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and sturdy Rockport walking shoes.
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted white or red,” she said, sitting on a heavy, worn leather sofa.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” I said.
