Butterfly Kills. Brenda Chapman

painted bubble gum pink. Brown hair hung in damp curls to her shoulders. Rouleau judged her to be mid-thirties despite her teenage clothing so similar to Della Munroe’s. After carefully inspecting their badges, Celia invited them into a kitchen that looked like a whirling dervish had carved a path of destruction through. The heat from the day had landed squarely in this room. Her hand motioned them in the direction of the table as she turned to get a bottle of milk from the counter.

      Rouleau cleaned a handful of soggy Cheerios from a chair and sat down. The two-year-old stood staring up wide-eyed at Gundersund, a thumb in his mouth and a blanket clutched in his chubby hand. The cloth diaper, his only bit of clothing, sagged dangerously.

      “Sit, Gundersund,” said Rouleau. “He probably thinks you’re a giant from a storybook. Maybe that one at the top of the beanstalk.”

      “Little kids love me,” said Gundersund, lowering onto a chair that looked like it might break into kindling under his weight. “They’re not smart enough to fear me yet.”

      “Go play with your trucks,” said the woman to the boy. She patted his head on the way by. He didn’t have far to go. Toys littered every square foot of floor space. She shoved a pile of laundry onto the floor and sat in the chair with her back to the patio window. Cradling the baby on her lap, she popped the bottle into its mouth, then angled herself to look at them while keeping an eye on her son. “So how can I help you, detectives?”

      “Della Munroe told us that she spent time over here talking to you this past year,” said Rouleau.

      “Della’s okay, isn’t she?”

      “She’s fine; but there’s been an altercation and we’re following up. How well do you know the Munroes?” Rouleau glanced at Gundersund. He took out a pen and slid his notebook from his pocket onto his leg.

      “They moved in about two years ago. Della used to come for coffee.”

      “Used to?” Rouleau asked.

      “Up until about a month ago. She said Brian didn’t like her wasting time. They have a four-year-old boy, Tommy, and she was home with him in the mornings. Other than that, she takes a couple of university courses in the afternoons when Tom’s in kindergarten. Brian works at the Sunshine Bakery on Brock.”

      “Would you say Brian and Della were happy together?”

      “I thought so at first, but Della said Brian had to be into the bakery at four a.m. so it meant he was in bed by eight most nights. It was putting a strain on their relationship. Also, I don’t think they had a lot of income. She complained a few times about being stuck without a car. Brian thought the courses she was taking were a waste of time and she told me he didn’t want to pay for her to continue in the fall. She’s working on an undergrad degree in English lit with a psych minor.”

      Rouleau accepted a race car that the child placed on his knee. “Any signs of violence, or did she ever say she was scared of him?”

      Celia bit her lip. “Actually, she went out of her way to say everything was good at home. You know that saying: methinks she doth protest too much? One time she had bruises on her arm. When I asked about them, she laughed and told me she’d walked into the door. She said that she knew how that sounded, but Brian would never hurt her. She kept insisting. The last time I saw her, her left eye was black. She didn’t say how it happened, and I didn’t ask.”

      “Why not?”

      “I didn’t need to. Della finally admitted that things weren’t going so well at home, but she was going to try harder to make it work. That meant stopping our coffee hour and spending more time cleaning the house. She really wasn’t very good at running a house from what I saw.” Celia looked around her kitchen and laughed. “Luckily, my husband doesn’t care what our place looks like.”

      “How well did you know Brian?”

      “I met him a few times, but he worked a lot. Maybe their different backgrounds put another strain on them. Della implied that race was the reason her parents disowned her.”

      Rouleau wasn’t convinced that skin colour was a factor in the Munroes’ current marital problems but filed the comment in his possibility file. “And did you form any impression about him?”

      “He was quiet, an introvert, I’d say. Della’s the opposite … or used to be. I wasn’t sure why they ever hooked up, well, except for their obvious good looks. Brian’s gorgeous, like a football player, and Della’s that outgoing cheerleader type. They were living in Toronto when they met. She was in her last year of high school and he was a few years older. She told me that he was a cook in a fast food restaurant and they saved enough to open this bakery. Della never said too much about it except that she was the one that did all the scrimping and saving; otherwise they’d still be living in some slum high rise. She got pregnant with Tommy right after they hooked up and said it was bad timing but she was always blessed to have him.” Celia shifted the baby onto her shoulder and began patting on its back. “Sex doesn’t carry you as far once the babies arrive if that’s all that’s holding your relationship together.”

      “The long hours Brian had to put into his business must have been difficult.”

      Celia nodded. “Especially with her mother dying and her father shutting her out. I just hope Della’s okay. She deserves someone better than Brian. From what I saw, he needs to control and she went along with it. He never should have made her leave Toronto. She wasn’t cut out to be a housewife in a town the size of Kingston. She was made for a bigger life.”

      The afternoon sun was fading when Rouleau sat across the desk from his new Chief of Police, Malcolm T. Heath. Heath was forty, younger than Rouleau by ten years, but well connected according to Gundersund. He’d used his influence to rise quickly through the force to rank of chief at an age when most were a few levels lower. It hadn’t taken Rouleau long to figure out that Heath wasn’t particularly involved in the day-to-day and didn’t care for detailed reporting. He preferred to be told the big picture and relied on a solid media relations team with himself as spokesperson to keep the force well positioned in the community. Heath’s Achilles heel was scandal. Any whiff of a negative news story and he whipped his communications machine into a frenzy. Rouleau wondered how tenuous Heath’s appointment was and who he owed. He could live with Heath’s PR obsession, however, because it didn’t involve micromanaging cases. Heath left the heavy lifting to the detectives.

      Heath ran a ringed hand through his greying curls and leaned back in his chair to look out the window. On their first meeting, Rouleau had been reminded of a cherub — plump cheeks and rosy complexion with curly hair that women spent serious dollars to achieve in the salon. His round, blue eyes usually focused on a point just beyond Rouleau’s right shoulder. Heath would appear to have drifted off, and then surprise Rouleau with an astute observation. Rouleau was curious to know whether the Columbo routine was for real or a carefully tuned act. He’d buy it, though, if it meant the hands-off approach continued.

      Heath swung his eyes toward Rouleau. “Any movement on the new hire?”

      “I have someone in mind but am having trouble reaching them.”

      One eyebrow lifted. “Odd. Are they working now?”

      Rouleau shook his head. “Kala Stonechild is on a canoe trip and out of range. I’d like to give her a few more days.”

      “I want to be staffed up by the end of the month.” Heath glanced at his computer screen. “Any luck finding a place to live?”

      “I’m still at my father’s apartment. He had foot surgery four weeks ago.”

      “There might be vacant student housing but you won’t want any part of that. I’ll send your email address to a friend of mine in real estate. She should be able to come up with something suitable.”

      “Thanks.”

      “This Munroe case. You think it’ll get any media play?”

      “Depends if it goes to court. The Munroes could battle it out