coffee and got up to pay.
“No need,” Aziz said. “I paid when I picked up the tart. Worth every penny, too.”
Chapter 11
Melody Chapman ushered the two detectives to her office, taking the back route through the kitchen corridor so the yacht club members wouldn’t see them. She was a slim woman in her late thirties who smiled easily—but too often. Smartly dressed in a pale blue suit, she waved for them to sit down opposite her desk. The office was modest modern, with touches of the old world that presumably made the clients comfortable. There were photographs and paintings, all of ships Dundurn Harbour hadn’t seen for hundreds of years, if ever. MacNeice walked over to study them. The beautifully framed reproductions included a stirring painting of the
Bluenose
, raked over at an angle and tearing south along the east coast.
“Do you know sailing ships, detective?” Melody’s name was apt; her voice floated merrily through an octave.
“Sadly, no. But I like to look at them.”
“How long have you been manager here at the yacht club?” Aziz asked.
“Five years, and before that I was assistant manager for three.” She flicked something invisible from her sleeve.
Aziz retrieved the photocopy from an envelope. “DI Vertesi already presented this photo to you—do you recall?” Aziz waited for Chapman to look at it before setting it down on the envelope.
“Of course I recall,” Chapman said. “I told him I didn’t recognize her, though I did sayshe may have been a renter, a boat renter I—”
“Oh my.”
Both women turned to look at MacNeice. He seemed captivated by a painting of the British ship HMS
Victory
in 1803—according to its brass plaque—full sail against a windswept sky, three decks of cannon at the ready, smashing through an impossibly blue sea. “It would be wise for you to look at the photo again, Ms. Chapman.” He continued to study the painting.
“I, I don’t understand …” Melody’s hands dropped to her lap.
Aziz tapped the photo in front of her. “Detective Superintendent MacNeice believes you do know her, that she worked here at the yacht club and that you were likely the one who hired her.”
MacNeice came back to the desk and sat down beside Aziz. Melody Chapman smiled nervously as he looked at her, expressionless and waiting.
No one said anything for nearly a minute. Melody lowered her eyes to the photocopy and kept them there. Then Aziz said, “Perjury carries significant consequences. If found guilty, the cost to you will be this office, this job and, I suspect, any job remotely like it in the future.”
Melody raised her hand in surrender. The lyrical bounce was gone when she spoke. “Her name is Anniken Kallevik. She was a foreign national doing a working tour of Canada. She’d applied for and accepted a position here as wait staff for the restaurant during the summer months only, June 1 to September 21. It’s the busiest season for the club.” Having gained some control of her voice, she turned her eyes to her hands now folded in front of her. “Anni was going to travel across country and take up a similar post in British Columbia, at Whistler.” Melody swung around in her chair and opened a filing cabinet drawer, retrieving a fat folder. Laying it on top of the dead woman’s photo, she flipped through until she came to anemployment application. She took it out, closed the folder and placed it before Aziz.
MacNeice had turned to stare at the painting, attempting to contain an impatient fury inflamed by hearing that the body from Cootes Bay was known to this woman. “But Ms. Kallevik didn’t leave in September, did she?”
“No. Two of our full-time staff quit the club and we were short, so I asked her to stay on and she agreed. Her Whistler resort position wasn’t going to begin until December 1, and she was willing to help us out.”
Aziz looked up from her notes. “You lied twice about knowing her. Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“No need,” Aziz said. “I paid when I picked up the tart. Worth every penny, too.”
Chapter 11
Melody Chapman ushered the two detectives to her office, taking the back route through the kitchen corridor so the yacht club members wouldn’t see them. She was a slim woman in her late thirties who smiled easily—but too often. Smartly dressed in a pale blue suit, she waved for them to sit down opposite her desk. The office was modest modern, with touches of the old world that presumably made the clients comfortable. There were photographs and paintings, all of ships Dundurn Harbour hadn’t seen for hundreds of years, if ever. MacNeice walked over to study them. The beautifully framed reproductions included a stirring painting of the
Bluenose
, raked over at an angle and tearing south along the east coast.
“Do you know sailing ships, detective?” Melody’s name was apt; her voice floated merrily through an octave.
“Sadly, no. But I like to look at them.”
“How long have you been manager here at the yacht club?” Aziz asked.
“Five years, and before that I was assistant manager for three.” She flicked something invisible from her sleeve.
Aziz retrieved the photocopy from an envelope. “DI Vertesi already presented this photo to you—do you recall?” Aziz waited for Chapman to look at it before setting it down on the envelope.
“Of course I recall,” Chapman said. “I told him I didn’t recognize her, though I did sayshe may have been a renter, a boat renter I—”
“Oh my.”
Both women turned to look at MacNeice. He seemed captivated by a painting of the British ship HMS
Victory
in 1803—according to its brass plaque—full sail against a windswept sky, three decks of cannon at the ready, smashing through an impossibly blue sea. “It would be wise for you to look at the photo again, Ms. Chapman.” He continued to study the painting.
“I, I don’t understand …” Melody’s hands dropped to her lap.
Aziz tapped the photo in front of her. “Detective Superintendent MacNeice believes you do know her, that she worked here at the yacht club and that you were likely the one who hired her.”
MacNeice came back to the desk and sat down beside Aziz. Melody Chapman smiled nervously as he looked at her, expressionless and waiting.
No one said anything for nearly a minute. Melody lowered her eyes to the photocopy and kept them there. Then Aziz said, “Perjury carries significant consequences. If found guilty, the cost to you will be this office, this job and, I suspect, any job remotely like it in the future.”
Melody raised her hand in surrender. The lyrical bounce was gone when she spoke. “Her name is Anniken Kallevik. She was a foreign national doing a working tour of Canada. She’d applied for and accepted a position here as wait staff for the restaurant during the summer months only, June 1 to September 21. It’s the busiest season for the club.” Having gained some control of her voice, she turned her eyes to her hands now folded in front of her. “Anni was going to travel across country and take up a similar post in British Columbia, at Whistler.” Melody swung around in her chair and opened a filing cabinet drawer, retrieving a fat folder. Laying it on top of the dead woman’s photo, she flipped through until she came to anemployment application. She took it out, closed the folder and placed it before Aziz.
MacNeice had turned to stare at the painting, attempting to contain an impatient fury inflamed by hearing that the body from Cootes Bay was known to this woman. “But Ms. Kallevik didn’t leave in September, did she?”
“No. Two of our full-time staff quit the club and we were short, so I asked her to stay on and she agreed. Her Whistler resort position wasn’t going to begin until December 1, and she was willing to help us out.”
Aziz looked up from her notes. “You lied twice about knowing her. Why?”
“I don’t know.”
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