us?”
“Give her my regrets. I don’t know when I’ll be free, I’m on a case. I was going to drop in earlier this morning to let her know but no one was home.”
“A case , okay, that explains the Ford. You’ll be missed. Take care.”
Kate and Roger strolled back to the precinct where they spent the rest of the day and the best part of the evening writing reports, doing background checks, and scheduling appointments.
***
Camira went to the kitchen and took down her favourite mug, fill ed the kettle and began to make tea. Standing on the stool in the pantry, she took down the one possession she had of her mother’s – a white, china teapot, with a thin worn circle of gold on the lid and spout. She reserved its use for special occasions only.
Surely being terrified qualifies as a special occasion, she thought, as she poured boiling water in the teapot. She glanced at her watch. Hanya should soon be here. She reached in the cupboard for her cousin’s favourite mug . It was a large white one with an eagle emblazed on one side and on the other, ‘ women chiefs can he al your griefs ’ , in bold script . She took her own cup of brewed tea into the living room and sat in the leather recliner.
It was her favourite room, her bedroom coming in a close second. Black leather sofa, side chairs , recliner and ottoman stood in stark contrast to the white accent pieces ; the pictures on the wall were black and white prints framed with black or white painted wood. Hanya once ask ed her why she chose not to add an other colour to her cozy nest .
Her reply was simple .
After career in modelling followed by one in the theatre, I need the relief of starkness .”
As she reached for the TV remote, she thought of the question the tall, good looking P olice Sergeant had asked her – did you notice anything different on the night before the Director’s murder?
The question conjured up the image of the dark figure getting into the cab. She had left the theatre after the performance to meet John, her modelling agent. He was down from Toronto and they made plans to get together after the performance. S he was looking forward to being brought up to date on the modelling and entertainment world. No one could deliver more scandalous, witty gossip better than John.
And , she wanted to share her good news with him . S he had been offered the role of Maggie the Cat in an American PBS production . They had sat together talking about their futures over a bottle of champagne until well after midnight.
The root of her terror began innocently enough, outside the restaurant, on the sidewalk. Waving goodbye to John, and heading for her car, her eye caught a sudden movement to her right. Turning her head, she saw a dark figure , ten feet in front of her, emerg ing from the alleyway leading from the theatre. She w atched the shadowy figure cross the street to a parked cab. The stance and walk of the person seemed familiar but she couldn’t put a name to the body .
That coat, that god-awful coat. Dark, shapeless, made it impossible to determine if it was a man or a woman .
She had yelled hello and waved as the person was leaning into the cab. At the sound of her hello, the person stood, lifted the hood of the jacket over the top of his or her head, turned and stared at her.
She couldn’t see the face. The figure stared with the intensity of burning logs for what seemed forever. Not one word was spoken. And then, swiftly, with the precision of a retracting switchblade, the dark figured turned and got into the cab. She didn’t think anymore about it until last night , until the detective asked his question.
In an effort to remain calm, she told herself the figure that came out of the alley way had been a drunk who pissed on the alley wall. The lie wouldn’t stick. The walk across the street
“Give her my regrets. I don’t know when I’ll be free, I’m on a case. I was going to drop in earlier this morning to let her know but no one was home.”
“A case , okay, that explains the Ford. You’ll be missed. Take care.”
Kate and Roger strolled back to the precinct where they spent the rest of the day and the best part of the evening writing reports, doing background checks, and scheduling appointments.
***
Camira went to the kitchen and took down her favourite mug, fill ed the kettle and began to make tea. Standing on the stool in the pantry, she took down the one possession she had of her mother’s – a white, china teapot, with a thin worn circle of gold on the lid and spout. She reserved its use for special occasions only.
Surely being terrified qualifies as a special occasion, she thought, as she poured boiling water in the teapot. She glanced at her watch. Hanya should soon be here. She reached in the cupboard for her cousin’s favourite mug . It was a large white one with an eagle emblazed on one side and on the other, ‘ women chiefs can he al your griefs ’ , in bold script . She took her own cup of brewed tea into the living room and sat in the leather recliner.
It was her favourite room, her bedroom coming in a close second. Black leather sofa, side chairs , recliner and ottoman stood in stark contrast to the white accent pieces ; the pictures on the wall were black and white prints framed with black or white painted wood. Hanya once ask ed her why she chose not to add an other colour to her cozy nest .
Her reply was simple .
After career in modelling followed by one in the theatre, I need the relief of starkness .”
As she reached for the TV remote, she thought of the question the tall, good looking P olice Sergeant had asked her – did you notice anything different on the night before the Director’s murder?
The question conjured up the image of the dark figure getting into the cab. She had left the theatre after the performance to meet John, her modelling agent. He was down from Toronto and they made plans to get together after the performance. S he was looking forward to being brought up to date on the modelling and entertainment world. No one could deliver more scandalous, witty gossip better than John.
And , she wanted to share her good news with him . S he had been offered the role of Maggie the Cat in an American PBS production . They had sat together talking about their futures over a bottle of champagne until well after midnight.
The root of her terror began innocently enough, outside the restaurant, on the sidewalk. Waving goodbye to John, and heading for her car, her eye caught a sudden movement to her right. Turning her head, she saw a dark figure , ten feet in front of her, emerg ing from the alleyway leading from the theatre. She w atched the shadowy figure cross the street to a parked cab. The stance and walk of the person seemed familiar but she couldn’t put a name to the body .
That coat, that god-awful coat. Dark, shapeless, made it impossible to determine if it was a man or a woman .
She had yelled hello and waved as the person was leaning into the cab. At the sound of her hello, the person stood, lifted the hood of the jacket over the top of his or her head, turned and stared at her.
She couldn’t see the face. The figure stared with the intensity of burning logs for what seemed forever. Not one word was spoken. And then, swiftly, with the precision of a retracting switchblade, the dark figured turned and got into the cab. She didn’t think anymore about it until last night , until the detective asked his question.
In an effort to remain calm, she told herself the figure that came out of the alley way had been a drunk who pissed on the alley wall. The lie wouldn’t stick. The walk across the street
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