The Opposite of Dark Page 6

  “Just the basics,” Rhonda’s teaspoon clanged against the mug. “She said she was so sorry for hurting you and me. She said, ‘I swear I’ll never hurt you again, Rhonda; just tell me how I can make it up to you, Rhonda; we know each other too well to stay apart.’” Rhonda dropped the teaspoon in the sink. “As if she could scam me. The second I told her that Marcus and I were engaged, I knew she hadn’t changed.”

  “Why?”

  “She said, ‘He’ll never need you as much as I do. He’ll never understand you as well as I do, Rhonda.’ Every time she called she went on about how he and I were wrong for each other.” Rhonda removed a green bucket, brush, and Pine Sol from the cupboard below the sink. “I would bet Lillian said the same thing to Marcus. She hinted that they’d stayed in touch. When you said her name was in his address book I wasn’t surprised.”

  “Why would Dad have done that?”

  “No clue.” Rhonda filled the bucket with water. “Lillian kept calling me after Marcus’s funeral, supposedly to see how I was doing. I wonder if she knew he was alive.”

  “If you didn’t want Mother’s friendship, why say anything at all? Why not just hang up on her?”

  “You won’t believe this, but I felt sorry for Lillian.” Rhonda picked up her scrub brush and rubber gloves. “She was so desperate for news about you. I’m a mom, Casey. I can’t imagine being estranged from my daughter, not watching her grow up.”

  “Did you and Dad ever discuss Mother?”

  “I told Marcus about the calls, but he wouldn’t talk about it. Thought he was still bitter. Now, I’m not so sure.” Rhonda lifted the bucket out of the sink. “Somehow, I don’t think Lillian’s finished with us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She plunked the sudsy bucket onto the floor. “Sooner or later, she might appear on our doorstep to try and make peace with you.”

  “After all of these years?”

  “I think she hates that you and I are close.” Rhonda put the gloves on. “She wants to be part of your life again, probably to try and come between us.”

  An unsettling thought. Was that why Mother wanted her to phone?

  Rhonda began scrubbing the floor. Rhonda always cleaned floors when she was under stress, which was why Casey was glad she hadn’t mentioned the phone message. Her friend had to be far more stressed than she was letting on. Why else would she abandon partially eaten toast and a fresh mug of coffee to wash a floor she’d just washed yesterday?

  Eight

  SIMONE ARCHAMBAULT LIVED on a muddy lane bordered by sulphuric-smelling ditches and prickly weeds. Her cottage was a gray, clapboard shack about as appealing as a war bunker. The venetian blinds covering both windows were closed.

  Casey walked along two planks laid across the marshy front lawn until she reached the door. She’d barely started knocking when the ominous barks of a large dog started inside. Simone poked out from behind the curtain. Casey heard, “Stop it, Georgie!”

  The door opened and Casey found herself looking at a tiny woman with hunched shoulders and deep lines across her forehead and around her mouth.

  “I’m Casey Holland.”

  Simone studied her through bifocals. “Yes, you are.” She looked so malnourished that Casey was caught off guard when Simone grabbed her wrist and hauled her inside. “Not followed, were you?”

  “No.” She’d been diligent about checking her surroundings. “Why do you ask?”

  “I want privacy.”

  The Doberman pinscher growled.

  “It’s okay, Georgie.” Simone led him into a room and shut the door.

  Casey followed her to a plywood table under a window at the back of the cottage. The fridge and stove looked forty years old. Above the sink, two plates, four cans of vegetable soup, and two cans of dog food sat on a shelf. Charcoal sketches of barren landscapes and soaring eagles were the only decoration on dingy, beige walls.

  “Did you draw these?” Casey asked. “They’re really good.”

  “My nephew.” She eased into a chair. “Sit down, please.”

  Her French accent wasn’t strong, but Casey doubted she’d be hearing much of it. Simone didn’t strike her as the chatty type.

  “Thank you for seeing me.” Casey watched Simone’s curt nod. “As I mentioned on the phone, after what happened Sunday night, I’m trying to learn more about my father’s past. Did you know about the murder?”

  Simone watched her a long time. “No, and that person is not Marcus.”

  “Evidence suggests otherwise.” As Casey described her trip to the morgue and the revelation about his West Vancouver home, Simone’s stoic expression didn’t change. “Your family in France told the police they didn’t know Dad.”

  Her eyes widened. “The police talked to them?”

  “Yes.” Why did Simone look so worried? “The detective’s name is Lalonde. I’m sure he’d like to talk to you.”

  “Botulism killed Marcus. If you had seen him, you’d know.”

  “I wish I had, but I didn’t know he was sick until some doctor called and said he’d died.”

  “Marcus gave me your home number.” Simone looked down at her gnarled, arthritic hands. “I called your house three times, but no answer. I didn’t know where you worked. Marcus only said you were in security. Your profession troubled him.”

  Something Casey had known.

  “And then I became too ill to continue calling.”

  “It’s lucky you recovered.”

  “I had only a small taste of his potato salad.” She shrugged and looked at her tiny patch of yard through the window.

  “As I also mentioned on the phone, I only learned about you yesterday.” Casey waited for a response, but none came. “How did you and Dad meet?”

  “An acquaintance referred him. Said Marcus was an excellent importer.”

  Casey sat back in the chair. “There must be some mistake. My dad was an architect. Are you sure we’re talking about the same Marcus Holland?”

  Simone watched her. “I have a picture. Stay here.”

  She left the room, returning a moment later with a snapshot of Simone and Dad at a birthday party. Dad was wearing his silk tie with the penguins on it, the one she’d bought him for Christmas six or seven years ago. One day, he got ink on the tie. Casey thought he’d thrown it out. After his funeral, while she was packing his clothes for Rhonda, she found the tie neatly folded and wrapped in tissue at the back of a drawer.

  “When was this picture taken?” Casey asked.

  “Five years ago, on my seventieth birthday.”

  “How long had you known each other?”

  “Ten years.”

  “And he was an importer back then?”

  “Yes.”

  Casey wasn’t sure which irritated her more: that Dad’s other life had gone on for so long or that strangers knew more about him than she did.

  “I had no idea,” she murmured. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “Marcus didn’t want you to know that his architectural practice was failing. Architecture was wrong for him.”

  “He was a good architect. Ran his own firm for years and he was always busy.”

  “He was disillusioned and poor,” Simone replied. “Imports and exports brought in money to keep his architectural firm alive.”

  “So, it was a side business.” Casey knew about the disillusioned and poor part, so why the big secret out a second income? Unless . . .

  “Simone, what did Dad import for you?”

  “Rare decks of tarot cards; all kinds. Celtic, Egyptian, I Ching.”

  “Really?”

  Simone blinked at her. “Through those cards, I helped people with problems. Clients still look for me, which is why I need privacy.”

  What on god’s earth would Dad have had in common with a fortune teller? He’d never believed in that stuff. “Judging from this photo, I gather you two were also friends?”

  “Yes.”

  Casey handed the photo back to Simon
e. “Do you know if he imported anything else besides your cards?”

  “Furniture, art.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t know.” She gazed off into space. “He had an assistant at his architectural firm. Vincent, I think his name was. He might know.”

  Vincent Wilkes knew about the importing business? She’d have to have another chat with him. Aware that Simone was watching her rather intensely, Casey tried not to squirm.

  “Marcus often mentioned you,” Simone said. “He had hopes for a grandchild.”

  Another thing she hadn’t known, and why was this old woman refusing to believe that Dad had faked his death?

  “Simone, were you with Dad when he died?”

  “No.”

  Casey thought she saw a glimmer of fear. “Then can you be sure it really happened?”

  “Marcus died in the hospital, no mistake.”

  “The man you ate with might have been an impostor.”

  “If he were alive, he would have come for his book.”

  “What book?”

  “A notebook. He said to give it to you if he died. It’s the other reason I needed you to come here.”

  Simone walked to a large wooden trunk under the window at the front of the cottage. Following, Casey watched her retrieve a key from a chain hidden under her shirt. Simone knelt and unlocked the trunk. The lid creaked open.

  Casey stepped closer as the woman removed decks of tarot cards and small wooden boxes. Simone lifted out a cassette tape labeled “Mozart: The Last Four String Quartets” and a folded sheet of paper smudged with charcoal. Simone hesitated over these items then quickly exchanged them for a zippered, blue book. The book was a little larger than a paperback. Simone shoved it into Casey’s hands, as if she couldn’t bear to touch it.

  “When I came home two years ago, I called you again,” Simone said. “A woman said you’d moved away and wouldn’t give any information.”

  “My ex-husband’s girlfriend; she moved in right after I moved out.”

  Simone pointed at the book. “It’s yours now. Take it.”

  Casey opened the zipper. “What’s inside?”

  “All I know is that it was valuable to Marcus.” Simone returned her things to the trunk. “You must leave now.”

  A house key fell from the pages and Casey smiled. “Have you ever been to Dad’s home on Marine Drive?”

  “No.” She shut the lid. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me or where I live, promise?”

  “As I said, the police might want to talk to you. Frankly, I’m a little surprised they haven’t found you yet.”

  “Only Marcus and one other friend knew this phone number and address. This was my hidden retreat. I moved here permanently after I left Paris. I don’t want people to know where I live.”

  Was this more than a privacy issue? Was something troubling this woman? “Simone, do you know anything about a Marcus Holland look-alike? As far as I know, Dad never had a long lost twin.”

  Simone locked the trunk. “I know nothing about the person in the morgue.”

  Casey flipped through dozens of pages containing names, phone numbers, email and street addresses. “Do you know who these people are?”

  “I haven’t looked in the book. You should go now.”

  Casey turned to the last page and stared at the name “Theo Ziegler.” Dad had written down two addresses, one for San Francisco, the other in Geneva, plus two phone numbers and an email address.

  “Simone, did Dad ever mention someone named Theo Ziegler?”

  Simone glared, as if offended by the question. “I don’t know those people.”

  Was this true? Casey zipped up the book. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  “I pray I’ve done the right thing. There are too many decisions to make. Difficult.”

  “I don’t quite know what you mean.”

  “Go now.”

  Casey removed a pen and pad from her purse. “If you want to talk or need anything, please call me.” She jotted down her home number on the back of her business card.

  Simone struggled to her feet. “You will keep this visit secret? I swear on the lives of my family that I know nothing about that man in the morgue.”

  “Why do you want to keep my visit a secret?”

  “I don’t want to be involved in a murder investigation. I just want peace and quiet.”

  “Okay, I won’t tell a soul.” Unless her promise turned out to be undeserved.

  Simone opened the door. She scarcely gave Casey time to step outside and say goodbye before shutting it.

  In her car, Casey studied a slip of paper tucked into the back of the book. Dad had written the address of the house on Marine Drive. Below, he’d drawn two vertical rows of x’s and o’s and a bunch of squiggly lines. Had he been doodling, or was there a point to the squiggles? She thumbed through the book. Most of the addresses were European, a few were American. Simone was one of two Canadians who’d lived close to Dad, the other was Vincent Wilkes whose old address was listed. Both of them had stars beside their names. Casey turned to Ziegler’s name. No star there.

  It’d be impossible for her to meet all the people in the notebook, but she could try emails and phone numbers. Several other names had stars beside them, and Casey didn’t recognize any. Had they been Dad’s friends? It was possible, since Mother’s name, street and email addresses, plus a cell phone number were also listed, yet she had no star by her name. For the second time this week, she wondered why Dad had listed Mother at all.

  Casey sighed. Everywhere she went Mother’s name cropped up; with Detective Lalonde, her father’s address books, Rhonda. Now the woman was passing messages to her through the authorities.

  Casey pulled the crumpled phone slip from her pocket. As she looked at the brief note Lalonde had written, she couldn’t help feeling that Mother was moving closer, preparing to make contact as Rhonda had predicted. Was that such a bad idea, though? If Mother and Dad had kept in touch all those years, how much did she know about this importing business? Had she known Dad was alive? Casey shoved the number back in her pocket.

  Nine

  CASEY CHEWED THE warm, misshapen ball of falafel for three seconds before her taste buds couldn’t take any more. She spit out the ochre-colored mess in the sink. So much for a nutritious supper; grainy garbanzo beans saturated with spices and parsley flakes wasn’t for her, with or without the yogurt and cucumber dip. Good thing the bowling alley made a decent burger.

  As Casey fetched the last Coors from the fridge, she heard Rhonda’s knock. When she opened the door she was surprised to find Rhonda standing beside a tall, thin man sporting blue-tinted glasses and tight, blond curls.

  “Hi, Casey, I’d like you to meet my new tenant, Darcy Churcott.”

  “Hi,” he said in a raspy voice. “Good to meet you.”

  “You too.” She turned to Rhonda. “I didn’t know you’d interviewed anyone.”

  “That’s because you’ve been gone all day.”

  True, she’d only got home from Victoria forty-five minutes ago and had just finished sending a carefully worded email to Mother. Casey had thought about calling her, but she wasn’t ready to hear Mother’s voice again.

  “Since Darcy now has the Summer seal of approval, he’ll be moving in tomorrow,” Rhonda said.

  “Great.” Rhonda never rented a room unless Summer approved of the applicant.

  “Darcy’s an electrician,” Rhonda said, “but he had knee surgery a few weeks ago.”

  “The doc says I can go back to work in a few days.”

  “I think you’ll like it here,” Rhonda smiled at him.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Stubbs.”

  “Whoa.” Casey laughed. “If you don’t want to be evicted before you move in, call her Rhonda.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He smiled. “I’d better go pack.” Leaning on the rail, Darcy started down the steps. “If I ever get on skis again, shoot me. It’s not as much fun as everyone says.”

 
“Don’t talk to me about fun.” Rhonda snorted. “My last date’s idea of fun was to let his parakeet hang upside down in his hair and peck the mole on his cheek.”

  Darcy called over his shoulder. “I hate birds.”

  “Something else in common.” Rhonda stepped inside Casey’s apartment and shut the door. “He’ll make a fun foursome.”

  “Foursome?”

  “You and Lou, Darcy and me.”

  “Aren’t you moving a little fast? You don’t even know if he’s attached.”

  “He isn’t, I asked.”

  “Anyway, Lou and I are not a couple.” She sipped the Coors.

  “But you hang out together. So why don’t the four of us go to the neighborhood pub this weekend.”

  “How do you know Darcy doesn’t have other plans?”

  Rhonda spotted the blue notebook Casey had left on the coffee table and changed the subject. “That looks familiar.” She unzipped the book and flipped through the pages. “Oh my god, it’s Marcus’s address book.” She looked at Casey. “He used to keep this with him all the time. Where did you get it?” Casey had hoped a brief answer would work, but one question led to another, and before long Rhonda knew about the meeting with Simone Archambault and Dad’s import business.

  “I didn’t know about any import sideline,” Rhonda said, scanning the book. “Almost none of these names are familiar.”

  “What about Theo Ziegler on the last page?” When she and Lalonde were talking about him at Dad’s house, Rhonda had wandered off and hadn’t heard his name mentioned.

  “No idea,” Rhonda replied, staring at the name.

  “While I was on the ferry, I tried calling the handful of Canadian and American phone numbers in the book, but the numbers were either out of service or the person I wanted had changed companies. I’ll try emailing people later.” She’d also see if Ziegler’s name popped up on the Internet.

  “The notebook’s old and could be a gigantic waste of time. Besides, isn’t fact finding Lalonde’s job?”

  “This is family history research, not a murder investigation.”

  Rhonda sat on the sofa. “If Marcus had wanted us to know about his other life, don’t you think he would have told us?”