it an early night.”
“Can anyone vouch for you?”
“No. I live alone. I only have a helper come to work when I have more than four kids so neither was here that day because most of the kids were off with the flu.”
“How close are you to Jane?”
“Are you asking if I’m close enough to kill on her behalf?” Sandra smiled and suddenly Kala saw her resemblance to Jane in their identical expressions that could have been taken as mischievous but came across as secretive. “My sister and I had to learn to band together when we were kids to survive in my mother’s house of spare the rod. I’d take a bullet for Jane but that doesn’t mean I’d commit murder for her.”
Gundersund was writing down details of their visit in his notepad while Kala drove toward the school. The sky had brightened since their morning drive to Sandra’s house and Kala felt her spirit lift. At this time of year, a warm, sunny day was to be savoured. The warmth had to carry them into the winter months that were just around the corner.
Gundersund clicked the pen with his thumb a couple of times and set the notepad on his knees. “What’s your take on Jane and Sandra?”
“Their childhood would make an interesting study. They both chose to work with kids even with a lousy role model. I find that interesting.”
“I hadn’t made that connection. You’d have to wonder how much impact their mother’s discipline and preaching had on them and on the way they interact with kids. Did the mother’s parenting come up at the trial, do you know?”
“Not sure.”
“Yeah. I’ll make a note to check. From what I’ve been reading in the file, Cathy Bryden kept meticulous notes. Sandra doesn’t have an alibi but she doesn’t seem high on the suspect list. For one, she could have killed Devon at any point over the past three years if she’d wanted to and wouldn’t have implicated Jane since she was in prison.”
Kala pumped the breaks as she eased up to a stop sign. She looked over at Gundersund. “Unless she wanted Jane to be implicated. Who knows what’s really going on between the two of them? The fact Jane hasn’t been to see her a month after her release and appears to barely tolerate her phone calls makes me wonder how close they really are.”
“Layers inside of layers.” Gundersund picked up the notepad. “Never trust anyone.”
“That’s right. Jane Thompson may very well have killed this kid, but it’s also possible that somebody was waiting for her to get out of prison so they could pin this on her. That leaves the field wide open.”
“But why? The only ones I can see who would want revenge would be family and friends of Devon. They’d hardly kill him to get back at Jane Thompson. Makes no sense.”
“Well, there’s Jane’s sister Sandra as we just discussed and an ex-husband, for starters. Sounds like Adam Thompson is keeping Jane from their kids. Maybe he wants her back inside so he never has to deal with her again. He kills the boy she was having an affair with and vents some pent-up anger from their affair that must have made him look less than manly. What was the name of the street the school’s on?”
“Kingston Collegiate. Make a left here on Frontenac. It’s that three-storey red brick building at the end of the block.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Eton home was furnished with an eclectic mix of modern and antique — darkly stained oak and walnut tables with elaborately carved designs contrasted with the sleek lines of minimalist sofas and chairs upholstered in expensive silk fabrics. The art on the walls ran to hunting scenes and landscapes in the Turner tradition, a reflection of Hilary’s British heritage. She’d led Rouleau into the spacious living room when he arrived at 9:00 a.m. and invited him to sit on a plaid-covered couch in front of a bay window that looked out over the backyard. Oak trees lined the back of the property, their leaves a slash of scarlet against the blue backdrop of sky. The room smelled of smoke from a recent fire in the brick-lined hearth. Charred logs still rested in the grate.
“Mitchell will be right down. He’s with our daughter, Sophie. As you can imagine, she’s having great difficulty accepting Devon’s death.” Hilary positioned herself in the wingback chair across from them. The sombreness of her long black skirt and black sweater was softened by the glint of a wide sterling silver bracelet wrapped around one wrist and a heavy silver chain with a heart locket resting between her breasts. Dark eyeliner rimmed the redness in her eyes that came from crying or lack of sleep. Probably both, Rouleau thought.
He sat forward, trying to bridge the distance between them. “I know how difficult this is for you and your family and I’ll try to intrude as little as possible, but we want to find whoever harmed your son and hold them responsible. The sooner we learn all we can about Devon’s movements last week, the more quickly we can make an arrest.”
“I’ve already told you who murdered Devon. I can’t understand why that bloody Thompson woman isn’t already in custody.” Hilary crossed her arms across her chest and sat rigidly in the seat. Her eyes looked over Rouleau’s head and out the window.
He didn’t contradict her. Nothing would be gained by challenging the accusation. He said, “My team has been collecting evidence and is even now interviewing everyone who knew Devon. Once we have proof for a conviction, we’ll arrest whoever is responsible.”
“It shouldn’t take long.” Mitchell Eton’s voice boomed across the space as he strode toward them. He didn’t notice that his loud entrance had made Hilary jump and grab on to her chest. “Have you taken the harlot in for questioning yet?”
Rouleau stood and extended his hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Eton. We’re doing everything we can to bring your son’s killer to justice. That includes interviewing Jane Thompson.”
Mitchell Eton was not a handsome man, but he commanded the room with his deep voice and piercing brown eyes. Unlike his wife, he had no trace of a British accent and exuded an aggressiveness that would serve him well in the business world. He gripped Rouleau’s hand before sitting next to him on the couch, legs spread wider than considered polite. Like Devon, he had broad shoulders, although his body was thicker without Devon’s height. He had the same shock of black hair, too, but silver threads glinted at the temples. Rouleau could see an angle to his nose where it had been broken and not set properly, giving him a thuggish air reinforced by the bullish way he held himself. Rouleau wouldn’t have placed him with aristocratic-looking Hilary, yet they’d married, raised a family, and lasted as a couple longer than most. Mitchell hadn’t made eye contact with his wife since he entered. Rouleau could see the strain they both were under. He hated having to add to it, but he had no choice. “Can you tell me anything about the day your son was killed, Mr. Eton?” he asked.
Mitchell took his time answering and spoke in a measured voice when he did. “It was a regular day. I saw him at breakfast early. I was heading to the office and he had a football practice before school started. Neither of us is a morning person so we didn’t have any prolonged conversation, something you can imagine I regret now. Devon turned down my offer of a ride and was heading to the washroom last I saw him. Sophie and Hilary were both moving around upstairs when I left. I had a dinner meeting after work and got home around eleven. I thought Devon was already in bed. Hilary mentioned the next morning that he hadn’t come home but was likely at Charlie’s and hadn’t called. She said she was going to track him down when I left for the airport.”
Hilary
