We eat family style, at two large tables. In warmer weather, there's the option of dining by the lake or on the patio. After twenty minutes of listening to the Previl wives chirp and twitter about the food – oh my God, is that iceberg lettuce? And fried chicken? – the widow quartet decided to brave the elements and have their dessert outside.
After dinner, I offered the first shooting lesson to the Previl party. As I predicted, they couldn't care less about learning how to shoot. But when it comes to the dangerous sports, I have a rule: you don't listen, you don't do it. Not that I can say that out loud. I just drag out the lesson until "Oh, would you look at the time…"
Next on the schedule was a night-forest walk that I'd promised the widows. The Previls were very put out, even when I explained it was too dark for anything else. When I firmly told them that I had a prior commitment, they wanted to know why "that porter guy" couldn't take them on an excursion. I pointed out "that porter guy" was on crutches, and was a guest, not an employee. They stalked off, muttering among themselves.
After the walk, I managed to sneak to my room for an hour of downtime before the bonfire. I spent it on my laptop, searching for crimes similar to Sammi's murder.
I started by searching for homicides in Ontario that mentioned an infant. After skimming through several cases of child abuse and young mothers killing their newborn infants, all I could think about was how many couples would have loved to have those kids. Instead they were born to people who shouldn't be allowed within spitting distance of children.
I revised my search to recent Ontario homicides of teenagers that also mentioned an infant. Most were mishits, things like movies about homicide, teens, and babies.
Once I'd winnowed out those, I was left with only four cases of murdered teens. Three involved teenage mothers being killed by their boyfriends – open-and-shut cases of domestic violence in which the baby hadn't been touched. In the fifth, a teenage mother had been raped and murdered, her body dumped in a wooded lot. I plugged the girl's name into the search engine for more details.
After twenty minutes, I knew this case had nothing to do with mine. Besides the obvious differences of the rape and body dump, the eighteen-year-old had left a bar with a stranger, while her infant son was safely with her mother.
A rap sounded at my door, accompanied by Jack's gruff " Me. " I started closing my laptop, lips parting to call "just a minute." Then I stopped myself.
Hiding my research from Jack implied I shouldn't be doing it. So I called him in. When his gaze went straight to the laptop, I braced myself.
"Looking stuff up?" he asked.
I explained.
"Good idea."
A soft exhale as I realized I'd been holding my breath. While I inwardly railed at the suggestion I needed Jack's approval, I did, if only to gauge whether I was slipping into obsession.
He offered to continue digging for me while I hosted the bonfire.
"I'm not late, am I?" A watch check before he could answer. "No, I have another half hour."
"Yeah. But those brothers? Getting a little eager. Started looking for the axe."
I leapt to my feet. "Why didn't you say so?"
A laconic shrug. "Got insurance, don't you?"
I glowered at him and raced out the door.
Chapter Sixteen
"Got some kind of message," Jack said when I returned after the bonfire. "Popped up on your screen. From 'back-doorman.' "
"Oh, that's – "
"Quinn. Yeah. Figured that out."
Last fall, in coming up with online names, that's what Quinn had picked – a private joke. I didn't think Jack had been paying attention, but I guessed I should have known better. Nothing escaped him.
"Did you, uh, respond…"
"Didn't know how."
Which was probably a good thing. Jack may have invited Quinn on the job last year, but only because he needed his contacts. Jack thought Quinn was too brash, too fervent, too open. Quinn found exactly the opposite faults with Jack – too somber, too cold, too secretive. The only thing they agreed on was that the other could be trusted and was good at his job… as long as he did that job someplace else, with someone else.
"So you gonna tell me? About that job?"
"Job? Oh right, the Toronto one I did with him. Give me a minute and we'll go outside. I just want to pop him a note."
I motioned for him to sit on the bed as I checked my e-mail. There was one from Quinn. I started a brief response. Then my messenger pinged. Quinn, noticing I was still online and trying again. I answered, planning to say I had to run, but he asked if I'd seen the latest on the "rapist killer" case and I said I hadn't and… the conversation snowballed from there. After about five minutes, Jack stood and cleared his throat.
"I'll be outside," he said.
"Hold on. I just – "
"No rush."
The door closed behind him.
Jack's online search had gone better than mine. He'd substituted missing for homicide, looking for cases of young women who'd disappeared with their babies. He'd had to wade through lots of custody disputes and suspected homicides, where the infant had likely been killed, intentionally or through abuse, then the body hidden and never recovered. Once the chaff was removed, he was left with three cases.
I took the names and searched. One case ended tragically, with a newspaper article revealing that mother and child had been found in a river – an apparent suicide brought on by postpartum depression. In the second, six months after disappearing, the mother showed up at a homeless shelter, then took off in the middle of the night, abandoning her baby. That left me with Deanna Macy
I found multiple listings for her on missing-persons Web sites, but no resolution, happy or otherwise. With her dark hair and eyes, she was the physical opposite of Sammi, but like Sammi, Deanna Macy was a startlingly beautiful young woman. Coincidence?
I scanned through the details. Sixteen years old. Last known residence: a home for teen mothers, indicating little or no family support. The home was in Detroit – she'd been listed on Canadian sites in case she'd crossed the border.
At the time of her disappearance, her baby, Connor, had been a few weeks younger than Destiny. One evening Deanna and Connor had been taking the bus to see a friend. They never arrived. According to the bus driver, they'd never got on. The police were treating the case as a runaway, but the woman who'd notified the police was convinced otherwise.
The contact was Denise Noyes, with a Detroit-area phone number. From her emotional pleas, Noyes had to be a friend or family member. I didn't want to make this call from the lodge, so I'd do it tomorrow, when I was in town to see Tess.
Saturday started at 6 a.m. with my jog. The Previls had signed up, and while I was tempted to say, "I knocked and no one answered," I had to do my job – so I knocked… lightly. They answered. And they made their wives join us to share in a "romantic country run," which I'm sure would have been far more romantic if the guys hadn't spent the time commenting on my "form" and making indiscreet inquiries into the state of my romantic life.
After breakfast, I decided to get the biggest chore of the day over with – taking them shooting. Again, they joked all the way through my lesson, so I gave up. I couldn't keep stalling, but I could make sure we stayed on the inside range and only one gun was in play, as they took turns under my supervision.
I took a paper target from the bin.
"A bull's-eye?" one of the brothers – Ben – said. "Where are the people? Like what they use in the movies?"
"Sorry, I don't allow human-form targets unless you're a cop or someone who might need to shoot in the line of duty."
"And only if a perp does something dangerous, right?" said Ken, the other brother. "Like reaching for a tissue."