When the Flood Falls. J.E. Barnard
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Near lunchtime, she left the building by the front entrance. The media and the ladders were gone. The unrolled banners of outsize hockey players fluttered between the log pillars. She turned to view them from across the lawn, recognizing the ubiquitous Calgary Flames jersey on one as well as the Vancouver Canucks jersey she had been only too familiar with in the Lower Mainland. The opening exhibit upstairs in the east-wing gallery held more kinds of hockey memorabilia than she had ever suspected were made: sculptures, posters, comics, bronzed skates, and old uniforms. The walls were mostly bare, awaiting paintings and photographs on the same theme. Why a hockey exhibit in a cowboy-themed tourist village like Bragg Creek? She knew too little about art galleries or hockey — or cowboys — to hazard a guess. She left the Civic in the lot and set off on foot, staying on the side of the road farthest from the river.
Away from the building, the noise was louder. At the corner where the bridge came across, where she usually turned to head back to Calgary, she couldn’t avoid the sight of the water any longer. Big branches and other debris churned up against the bridge abutments. The largest pieces hit with a crack before swirling away, barely a foot below the bridge’s underbelly. She watched in sickened fascination until a car came along. The driver honked at her and she jumped, stepping hastily off the pavement beside the uphill turn to Dee’s house. After two minutes of steady walking, she was turning up Dee’s long driveway through the spruce trees. She let herself in by the mudroom door, noticing gratefully that the dogs were not in their pen to make a fuss. As she stepped into the house, though, a setter loped over from the living room, planted its feet, and growled at her.
Dee’s voice came behind it, sharp with fear. “Who’s there?”
“Me,” Lacey called back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I walked up.” When the dog turned away in answer to Dee’s call, she followed him into the living room. “You missed the excitement at the press conference.” She stopped. Dee was huddled on the couch, her faced blotched and her nose red. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
“Not hurt bad, but I wrenched my ankle a bit. Again.”
Lacey scanned the room at light speed, but nothing seemed disturbed. Not an intruder, then. She breathed. “If it hurts enough to make you cry, maybe we should get it checked. Where’s the nearest medical place?”
Dee blew her nose on a soggy tissue. “Nothing closer than Calgary. And anyway, that’s not why I’m crying. Can’t a girl shed a few tears after she’s nearly been run over for the second time?”
Lacey perched on the corner of the massive coffee table and leaned toward her friend. “This happened today?”
“Yeah. I was walking with the dogs down toward the Centre when some assholes came speeding down the hill. I grabbed Boney and Beau and jumped into the ditch. When the dust settled I couldn’t get up right away. I just sat there, shaking.”
“Tell me you called the police.”
Dee lifted her chin. “No need. It was Jake Wyman’s car.”
“The kindly millionaire? He tried to run you over?”
“No. He lets guests drive his cars. It was another stupid bloody hockey player behind the wheel, I’m sure. They think they own the world.”
“Three jocks in an orange BMW, by chance?” Lacey wasn’t surprised by Dee’s nod. The timing fit. “They burned into the Centre’s parking lot while I was out there. Probably right after they passed you. If I’d known, I’d have nailed them.”
“I’m sure Jake has thumped them down by now.” Dee eased her shoulders from her blanket. “I called Rob’s phone right away to tell them not to hold the press conference. Jan answered. She’d have told Jake first thing.”
“Who’s Jan? That shaggy-haired woman with the piercing shriek?”
“My uphill neighbour. Old friend of Rob’s, and she’s known Jake forever, too. I heard her yell his name and then she was cut off.” So Jake Wyman was the old cowboy. He didn’t dress like Lacey’s West Coast idea of a multi-millionaire, but that explained the reporters’ deferential distance while he told off the punk driver.
“Your neighbour was cut off,” she told Dee, “because she threw the phone at the jocks and then tried to beat them up. She had to be restrained.”
Dee sat up. “Seriously? I hope she’s all right.”
“She said she was. She looked a wreck to me.”
“I’m sorry I told her. It just poured out of me when I heard a friendly voice. Like when you walked in. What else are friends for?” Dee grabbed a fresh tissue and mopped her face. “Why are you here? Need lunch? Leftover chicken and salad in the fridge. One of us will have to get groceries soon.”
Lacey explained about Wayne’s offer. “You’ll feel safer tonight if I can get those lights installed in the right places after work. And I’ll get your bike down, too.”
“No rush on the bike.” Dee unwrapped her legs from the blankets. “I’m too shaky to try riding today. But I’m so glad you came home. I feel saner already. I’ll do food while you do photos, okay?”
As Lacey moved around the outside of the house, trying to balance the need for prowler protection with the story she’d told Wayne about the dogs, she wondered at Dee’s sudden mood shifts. Was it just the stress, or had she become a bit, well, unstable? Was there any prowler, or had she imagined the whole thing? She’d said she had suspected that of herself; now Lacey suspected her, too. But they had to proceed as if there was evidence to be gathered. If nothing triggered the extra lights by Friday, the day of the museum gala, they could discuss that again. And she’d have three more days to evaluate Dee’s mood swings. Wouldn’t that be a touchy conversation — suggesting that Dee needed to see a therapist.
Chapter Four
Back at the Centre after lunch, Lacey copied her photos to Wayne’s laptop. He skimmed through them and, using his finger on the touchpad, drew arrows and circles on the relevant images to show where she needed to install the lights. “You’ll have to use extension cords for now, and I can’t spare any. We’ll wire them in properly if she wants to keep them. Go load them in your car before you forget. And bring this list of stuff from the van. We’ll do the art vault this afternoon.”
Extension cords weren’t exactly high security; they could be unplugged if someone managed to sneak under the motion-sensor panels the first time. Lacey made a mental note to make sure the sensors covered wherever the cords came from. If the lights went on just once, they’d prove Dee hadn’t imagined the whole thing and demonstrate the need for greater security. She’d convince Dee to spend the money, or Wayne to delay billing for the work, or something. She went out into the brilliant afternoon, shuffled around the equipment per her instructions, and headed back inside to meet Wayne at the elevator that would take them into that holiest of holies in the art world: the vault.
Located deep in the sub-basement, poking its rear end out under the parking lot, the steel-encased, climate-controlled room was reachable by only one elevator, and only if the right key card was used. It was also at least ten degrees colder than the atrium. Standing in the small elevator lobby across from the shining steel vault door brought goosebumps up in waves on Lacey’s bare arms. She tried not to rub them while Wayne briefed her on the security. Only those key cards held by Wayne, Rob, and the board’s