Butterfly Kills. Brenda Chapman

to talk about. Meeza began singing a song she’d learned in school and Dalal knew she’d gotten over her sadness of a moment before. The thing about Meeza was that she never held a thought or emotion for long. Dalal closed her eyes and felt her body relax. The soothing motion of the swing and the warmth of the sun even in the shade were making her drowsy. She was almost asleep when Meeza stopped her chant and poked Dalal in the side.

      “I heard a car door. Daddy’s home.”

      “We’ll have to start supper.”

      Dalal felt the lurch of the hammock as Meeza launched herself onto the lawn. She watched Meeza race toward the back gate to head off their father before he made it to the front door. Meeza might be nearly twelve years old but she had the mind of a much younger child. The teachers had been telling her parents for years that Meeza needed to go into a special class. They’d called her a simple child with special learning needs. After her report card and a late afternoon call from the school, her parents and older brother Ghazi had huddled together like plotting generals. They’d gone for a meeting the next day and returned without saying what had happened. Dalal knew her parents wouldn’t allow Meeza to bring dishonour, whether real or imagined, to the household. Sure enough, Meeza remained in the same class and was promoted at the end of the year without any more phone calls from the teacher.

      Dalal reached into her pocket for her cellphone and checked her messages. A text from Joe! She read it quickly before erasing it and tucking the phone back into her pocket. It wasn’t safe to answer him back.

      Her father and Meeza came through the gate a few seconds later, Meeza holding onto his hand and skipping at his side. Her father looked sternly in Dalal’s direction as if he sensed her guilt.

      “Ghazi will be home from his course in half an hour and he’ll be hungry. What are you doing lying there without supper started?”

      Dalal jumped to her feet. “I’m sorry, Father. I’ll get it going right now.”

      “See that you do and take Meeza with you. She needs to learn how to prepare a meal.”

      Dalal hurried across the lawn, but an unsettling thought made her stare at her father as she neared him and Meeza. What were her parents and Ghazi hatching now for Meeza? Were they going to send her to be a helper for another family? Dalal wouldn’t put it past them. She held out her hand to Meeza as she walked by.

      “Come, Meeza. You can make the rice tonight.”

      “Oh goody,” said Meeza, clapping her hands. She leaped into the air and twirled on one foot before reaching for Dalal’s hand.

      Dalal turned at the door and looked at her father again. He stood tall and motionless in the full heat of the sun, watching them with laser-beam eyes. Dalal smiled in his direction, but a sudden cold tingling up her spine made her hand slip from the door knob. She banged her shoulder against the door before she managed to twist the handle open. Meeza squealed when Dalal yanked her into the kitchen away from their father’s piercing stare.

      The bad stuff’s not over yet, Dalal thought. And I have no idea how to stop it.

      Chapter Ten

      Rouleau introduced Kala to the rest of the team first thing the next morning. She shook hands with Ed Chalmers and Zack Woodhouse, then took a seat next to Gundersund. They were in a small boardroom down the hall from their offices. Kala had already been taken on a quick tour after getting a temporary building pass and signing some paperwork that made her an auxiliary officer on loan from the Ottawa force.

      Rouleau watched Vera cross the room in her tight pencil skirt and six-inch heels with Kala’s paperwork in hand and thanked whatever deity had brought her to the chief’s door. She’d performed bureaucratic miracles all before eight-thirty in the morning. Her head tilted toward him and she winked just before stepping outside and pulling the door shut behind her. Rouleau noticed that Kala had witnessed the exchange but her face remained impassive. Rouleau was happy to be a man who didn’t blush easily. He looked directly at Kala. “Right. Chalmers and Woodhouse have been brought up to speed about Leah Sampson’s murder. What you don’t know is that we’re also working on a spousal rape case, so we’re spread thin this week.”

      “Where would you like me?” asked Kala.

      “You’ll be teamed with Gundersund and leading on the Sampson murder. However, Chalmers and Woodhouse might need you to help on the rape case, so be prepared to go between the two, if necessary.” He broadened his gaze to include the others. “Everyone is going to have to be flexible, so keep up-to-date on both files. We’ll have debriefs every morning at seven-thirty. I’ll be coordinating both and dealing with media, needless to say, with Heath’s assistance.”

      “His forte,” said Woodhouse. The others smiled at some inside joke. Kala guessed that the unmet chief must fancy himself a media star. The knowledge might come in handy down the road.

      “Calls have been coming in. The Whig and the CBC are probing the murder story. We’ve even had calls from the Globe and Post.”

      What Rouleau couldn’t say was that he had little faith in Ed Chalmers, who was close to retirement and dogging it. Woodhouse was in his early forties but had shown little initiative. The two men even looked alike — both balding with middle age paunches. Woodhouse was taller and wore glasses, but aside from that they could have been brothers. Around the station they were known as Lazy and Lazier.

      “So, Chalmers and Woodhouse, start interviewing neighbours and co-workers — anyone who knew Brian and Della Munroe. We need evidence to back up Della’s story if it’s true.”

      “We’re on it,” said Chalmers.

      Rouleau wished he could find faith in Chalmers’s words, but failed. “Gundersund, can you sit in on the Sampson autopsy this morning?”

      Gundersund nodded.

      “We’ve located her parents in Montreal and they’re on their way, and the autopsy is scheduled for right after they see her. Stonechild, I want you to check out the staff where Leah worked. Her murder could be tied into her personal life or the help line. The killer might have been a stranger, but if so, why torture her? See what you can find out and bring along Officer Marquette. He’s waiting at his desk for you.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Check in as you go and I’ll let you know next assignments.”

      Everyone stood and started for the door. Gundersund fell into step with Kala.

      “Do you have the help line address on campus?”

      “No, but it shouldn’t be hard to track down.”

      “I’ll call you when the autopsy’s done to find out where you are. Can I have your cell number?”

      She recited the number and he jotted it down in his notebook.

      Gail Pankhurst lurched forward a step and dropped into the empty chair facing Jucinda and Nate sitting on the couch. Jucinda’s melodramatic announcement that Leah had been murdered kept repeating in her brain like a news bulletin stuck on replay.

      “I can’t fucking believe it,” Nate said. “No fucking way.” His face was the colour of whipped meringue. He slumped back and held onto his chest as if he’d been shot.

      “Well believe it,” said Jucinda. “The cop in there talking to Mark and Professor Tadesco is 100 percent certain. Plus, Leah missed her shift yesterday and again today, so that would appear to clinch it.”

      “Where’s Wolf?” asked Gail, her head swivelling around the office. “Does he know?”

      Jucinda shook her head. “Mark called him to come to the centre but didn’t tell him why.”

      The two women exchanged looks and the expression on Jucinda’s face sent a jolt through Gail’s nether regions. Juicy was smiling, her lips lifted at the corners, with a smug look in her eyes as if someone had handed her a gift. Gail recalled her vitriolic condemnation