The Defilers. Deborah Gyapong

in a clean pair of sweats the lights were still off at Catherine’s, so I fixed myself a ham and cheese on whole wheat. I fell asleep reading transcripts of Rex Dare’s trial.

      Chapter 7: The Blame

      When I awoke the next morning the clock radio read 5:55 a.m. I fumbled with the dial to find the local news. While I listened to a female announcer give a brief report about Rex’s murder investigation my body lay rigid. I unclenched my fists.

      “The RCMP are tight-lipped today about whether a man found shot dead in the woods near South Dare is Sterling County’s first murder victim of the year. Reginald ‘Rex’ Dare was found early yesterday morning about a kilometre from his home. Police refuse to say whether Dare was murdered or died as a result of a hunting accident. Three years ago Reginald Dare faced trial on charges related to satanic ritual abuse. A judge threw the case out of court before a jury could render a verdict.”

      I kicked off the covers and put on some black spandex shorts, a black sports bra, and a bright green T-shirt. Downstairs I eyed the files sitting on the daybed while I poured myself a glass of water and downed a fistful of vitamins. I gulped one glass down and refilled it, then went into the living room to stretch and do my exercise routine. Today was to be spent with Catherine and Grace. I was off work and would set it aside.

      Back in British Columbia police work consumed me and I had no time for a personal life. That led to trouble sleeping, nervous stomach cramps, and other signs of burnout. And now, despite all my resolutions to maintain balance, similar signs of strain were back. But the stress in Surrey had been much worse, especially after one of my male colleagues started circulating a picture of me taken while working undercover as a prostitute. The snickers and jokes turned out to be nothing compared to the cold hostility and lack of co-operation when I told the jerk I wouldn’t tolerate his behaviour. Maybe he feared a harassment complaint from me, but I didn’t need a human rights tribunal to fight my battles.

      Shortly after that the staff sergeant hauled me into his office for a performance review, saying I wasn’t a team player. A coincidence? Maybe, but doubtful. I kept my mouth shut and soon asked for the posting to Nova Scotia, hoping to leave my stalled career, sleepless nights, and rotten attitudes of my colleagues behind me.

      While doing lunges I mentally rehearsed the day I would spend with Catherine and Grace. I visualized our time together, hoping positive thinking could allay the gnawing feeling in my gut about work, and the way my thoughts drifted to the crime scene and Rex’s frozen corpse. I yearned to be with the team investigating today, but I was ordered to take the day off. I would take it off and enjoy myself.

      After stretching and some rope skipping I showered and dressed in jeans and an aqua sweatshirt. I blow-dried my hair and twisted it into a single braid. I needed a trim. Veronica was always nagging me to get my hair cut and highlighted. Her letter, still unopened, sat on the kitchen table. Just before leaving for Catherine’s I ripped it open.

      Dear Linda,

      Welcome back to Nova Scotia. I hope you’re settled in by now. I’m so glad you’re close by and I’d love to have you come and visit. You’re welcome anytime. What are your plans for Christmas? Please come and celebrate with me. I think your father would have liked it if we could be together.

      Love, Veronica.

      I tore up the letter, threw it into the plastic wastebasket under the sink, and slammed the cabinet door. How dare she write about Dad to me! Saddened by the memories I grabbed a paper towel and wiped my eyes. For crying out loud, Linda! Stop that! I glanced at the Rex Dare files sitting in the kitchen, and the image of his corpse competed with a memory of Dad packing the Buick for his move to Nova Scotia with Veronica.

      I forced myself to focus on my present surroundings. In the mud room I laced up my boots, then felt along the upper shelf for some gloves. My fingers touched a stack of framed photos I intended to hang. I took the top one down.

      There we were – Dad, Veronica, and me at my graduation from the RCMP Academy, Depot Division, in Regina, Saskatchewan. I wore my red tunic and my hair pinned up under my Stetson. Dad, his hair trimmed close like a Marine, wore a beige raw silk sports jacket that looked great on him, but I didn’t like because Veronica had chosen it. I stood in the middle, towering eight inches over her, but only an inch shorter than Dad’s five foot nine.

      His square face beamed in the photo. He seemed proud of me that day, but I didn’t feel much of anything. After Depot I took a posting with the gigantic Surrey detachment in the urban sprawl between Vancouver and Seattle, putting a continent between me and my memories. I hadn’t seen much of Dad and Veronica over the next ten years. If I hadn’t seen much of Dad while he was alive, there was no reason to start seeing Veronica now.

      Outside, the brisk wind made it feel cold, even though the sun was melting the snow, leaving bare patches of brownish-yellow grass. I sprinted across the semi-frozen meadow to Catherine’s and slipped into the toasty warmth of her kitchen. The smell of brewed coffee and fresh baking filled the air. Grace, dressed in bibbed ski pants, sat at the table nibbling on a muffin. Her face lit up when she saw me.

      “Where’s your mom?”

      “Upstairs. She said help yourself.”

      I poured myself a mug of coffee and took a muffin from the tin on the edge of the wood stove. Then I tried to concentrate on the little girl at the table with me, the aroma of the coffee, the texture of the cranberry and walnut muffin, resisting thoughts of work or Veronica.

      Catherine came down wearing bright orangey-red lipstick and smudged dark-green eyeliner around her eyes. She wore a dressy camel-coloured parka with a fur-trimmed hood. She looked especially pretty, her naturally wavy hair in a chin-length bob swept back from her oval face. She had a long neck and delicate features, but she thought she was plump and hated her figure. I imagined men found her voluptuous. She wore a long black skirt and reddish-brown leather boots.

      Catherine’s blue Toyota station wagon was nearly out of gas, so we piled into my Jeep and headed for the craft fair in the next county, the last outdoor fair of the season. Catherine and Grace kept up a steady conversation during the half-hour drive, helping me stay focused. We drove into Annapolis Royal, a tourist destination boasting an old fort, museum, and streets lined with historical buildings, many brightly painted in pastel shades of blue, yellow and beige.

      The craft market occupied a square across the street from a gravel beach where a green and white scallop dragger rested on a wooden haul-up. The sun shone through a thin layer of high white cloud. Wind whipped the grey water of the bay into whitecaps and buffeted the outdoor tables. Some men unloaded baled Christmas trees from a truck.

      Not many craftspeople were braving the winds and cold temperatures. A man stood next to stacks of kindling and firewood in stove lengths. A woman in a big padded coat displayed winter squash partially wrapped in newspaper for insulation. A man next to her sold wooden bird feeders and bags of seed. Catherine seemed to know almost everyone and she flitted from conversation to conversation.

      Grace held my hand as we walked among the tables. “See the squash, Auntie Linda? I don’t like squash that much.” She wore a woollen hat with her parka hood over it. The wind had turned her cheeks bright pink and brought tears to her eyes. She wiped her nose with the tissue I gave her. She leaned over to smell a balsam fir.

      “Smells like Christmas.” Grace beamed up at me. “You know, Santa Claus isn’t real but some little kids think he is.”

      I leaned over and inhaled the wonderful scent.

      “I want a Britney Spears doll for Christmas but Mommy doesn’t like them,” Grace said.

      While Grace prattled on I enjoyed experiencing life through her senses, seeing everything as fresh and new. Someone had set up a small petting zoo and offered pony rides. She rode around the little circle on the pony, looking so solemn and proud of herself while Catherine took photos. Time slipped away. Soon it was almost noon.

      A man in a red woollen work shirt ladled steaming cider into paper cups. Grace and I each took a sample. As I blew on the cider to cool it Catherine gestured to me,