Stonechild and Rouleau Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Brenda Chapman

Halliday woke from a dreamless sleep to a darkened bedroom. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was, but the confusion was fleeting. Lately, she was becoming more and more unsure of her surroundings upon wakening, often believing herself to be a young girl again in her parents’ home. Once, she even thought her brother Roddy was sitting in the chair waiting for her, but it had been many years since they lived in the same house. She wondered if the confusion in her mind was a sign of things to come. Alzheimer’s ran in her family and odds were not in her favour. So far she’d avoided speaking with her doctor about her vague symptoms. She was waiting for something more concrete before sharing her fears.

      The bed springs creaked and her heart jumped. She kept her body still. She took a deep breath and turned her head toward her husband. He was a dark outline leaning against the headboard.

      “Clinton. How long have you been sitting there?” she asked.

      “Half an hour.”

      “I didn’t hear you come in.”

      “I got lonely downstairs. It’s Christmas Eve after all.”

      She heard him swallow and then ice cubes clink against glass. Oh no. Keep him talking. “I thought the officer was nice, considering why she came,” she said. She turned on her side and propped herself up on the pillow, her head resting on her elbow so she could watch him.

      He looked down at her. “You were home that night?”

      “Of course. Why would you ask?”

      “I called and you didn’t answer the phone.”

      “What time was that? I was home all evening,” she paused, “except when I went for a walk. But I wasn’t gone long.”

      “Long enough. I tried calling for an hour and then gave up.”

      “I’m sorry, Clinton. If you’d said you planned to call, I would have waited at home.”

      He grunted and took another drink from his glass. She could smell rye from where she lay. His hand reached down and his fingers pulled a lock of her hair. She closed her eyes.

      “I’ve got a present for you,” he said. “Just a bit lower.”

      He tightened his hand in her hair and pulled her face toward his hip. Her cheek felt the skin of his leg and her mouth grazed his penis. She pulled away and pushed herself up with one hand until she was half sitting.

      “Clinton, I’m not feeling well. I’m not up for this tonight.”

      He laughed. “Well, I’m up for it. I’m sure you noticed.” He laughed again. “It’s your wifely duty to spread your legs more than once a month, or have you forgotten?”

      “I just haven’t been well this month. I need some time.”

      “And I need some ass.”

      He grabbed her head and pulled her level. His mouth found hers and he forced it open until his tongue filled her mouth. She tasted rye and garlic. She tried to push him away, but he had her against the headboard. His hand worked under her nightgown, snaking up her stomach and squeezing her nipples. The pain was sharp and tears started in the corners of her eyes. Still his mouth kept pummelling hers as his tongue darted in and out. He pulled away as suddenly and roughly pushed her lower in the bed. His breathing was raspy and excited. He forced her onto her side, her face away from him. She felt his erection pressing against her back.

      “All I want is what you promised to give me when you signed the marriage contract,” he said. “If you want it this way so you can pretend to be somewhere else, no fucking problem.”

      She felt the first thrust rip through her and couldn’t stop the scream that rose up her throat. It excited him even more. His breath was hot in her ear.

      “You like it rough,” he whispered. “You like it this way, my little Suzy. Wake up little Suzy. Wake up my sweet … little … Suzy.”

      He flipped her onto her back and she bit with all her might into the pillow just as the full weight of him pushed deep inside her, again and again while she kept on screaming inside her head in a place so far down, nobody would ever hear.

      14

      Saturday, December 24, 5:40 p.m.

      Kala filed her daily report late that afternoon before packing up her gear and heading downtown in her truck. She was becoming familiar with the rabbit warren of streets in the ByWard Market, but the mission was just outside the core and close to Ottawa University. She easily found the three-storey, red brick building on Waller Street just before six o’clock. She followed an army of footprints up the snowy walkway to the front entrance. Red arrows posted on the walls led her to the packed hall.

      The place was hopping.

      Overhead speakers crooned Bing Crosby singing Silent Night. His voice mixed with the noise made by the tables of street people and assisted living families who’d come in for turkey and mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. She heard the clink of cutlery and plates being slid onto tables by volunteer servers, and people speaking in loud voices, trying to make themselves heard above each other. Cheap loops of silver tinsel hung from the ceiling. Multi-coloured lights flashed on a plastic Christmas tree near the washrooms. The room was as warm as a sweat lodge and steam blurred the inside of the windows. Moisture trickled down her back under her heavy parka.

      She threaded her way through the long rows of tables and sea of people to the kitchen at the back. It took a few minutes to catch the attention of a large black woman who looked to be in charge. She was dressed in a red skirt and shiny green blouse with a reindeer brooch pinned just below the collar. Rudolph’s red nose flashed on and off like a turn signal. The woman held a clipboard and was directing volunteers with trays of food-laden plates.

      “Yes, can I help you?” she asked, spotting Kala. Laugh lines creased around her eyes behind red-rimmed glasses.

      “I phoned this morning about helping out. My name’s Kala Stonechild.”

      The woman looked down at her clipboard. “Kala Stonechild. I was hoping you’d show up. A few of the volunteers are wanting to get home to their families. Welcome aboard. Take that apron over there and … you said you’d waited tables before? Then, that section by the door is all yours. This is the one day of the year our patrons don’t have to line up for their food. If you have any questions, just ask. My name is Maya.” She snapped her fingers in the direction of a heavily pierced girl with purple hair. “Tiffany! Show Kala here the ropes. She’s going to help feed these hungry folks.”

      Tiffany smiled, said hello, and led Kala through the door into the kitchen. She set Kala up with a tray, notepad, and pen and showed her where to place orders and where to pick up the food. “You don’t have to worry about clearing the tables,” Tiffany said. “We have volunteers for that. If they finish eating, try to move them along to free up some tables. If we’re lucky, we’ll feed everybody by midnight. It’s a madhouse this year.”

      “Everyone seems to be having a good time.”

      “Amazing, isn’t it?” Tiffany laughed. “Even people with nothing can be happy at Christmas. Track me down if you need anything else.” She waved and disappeared to deliver a tray of salads.

      Kala looked around at the room of people and wondered what she’d gotten herself into. A few deep breaths and she headed to the first group of waiting people. Three tables later and she was in the thick of it. Taking orders. Back and forth from the kitchen with soup, salads, and plate after plate of turkey and dessert. Pouring coffee. Getting milk and juice for the kids. Everybody was in a good mood and laughter echoed off the corners of the room and down from the ceiling. After a while, she couldn’t believe how much fun she was having.

      She didn’t forget the real reason she was spending her Christmas Eve working for the Mission. Every five minutes she scanned the room, looking for an Aboriginal woman with a twelve-year-old daughter. Twice she thought she saw them, but both times she was disappointed.