LITMIR.BIZ

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was soon crackling and the smell of wood smoke filled the room.

      Kala lifted her eyes from the fire to his. “I wasn’t looking forward to Christmas at all this year, but it’s turned into a nice day after all. This is a comfortable room. It suits you.”

      “Thank you. I know the whole house needs a facelift, but maybe you’re right. This old place does suit me.” He smiled. “It’s not a great time of year to move jobs. Do you know anybody in the city?”

      “I’m tracking down an old friend.”

      “Well, it’s nice to have you spend Christmas dinner with me. I had lunch with my father but he’s a man of habit and can’t be convinced to leave his home overnight.”

      “And your mother?”

      “Ah, it’s a long tale of love and sadness. Would you like to hear?”

      “Only if you’d like to share it.”

      He didn’t know if it was his recent visit with his father or the Christmas spirit, or Frances’s heartbreaking news, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like talking. Kala was an intent listener and her eyes offered encouragement as he began his tale. He took a drink of wine and settled back against the cushions.

      “My mother, whose last name I share, grew up in a little town on the Gaspé Peninsula. She spoke only French and was the apple of her parents’ eyes, being the first born and a having gentle spirit. They had dreams of her becoming a nun, that is, until fate sent my father there for the summer to do some research. At the time, he was studying for his doctorate and specialized in Canadian history. Long story short, he met my mother walking on the bluffs near the sea and they fell in love. She was only sixteen.

      “Her family didn’t approve?”

      “They didn’t know. Marguerite, my mother, kept their relationship a secret. It was only after he returned to McGill in the fall that it became a secret she couldn’t keep. She found out she was pregnant after he was gone. Her mother was devastated and her father … well, let’s say that it was just as well my father had returned to school.”

      “Your mother kept you?”

      “She did, against the wishes of her family. In those days, it was a sin to have a child out of wedlock. The Catholic Church was the heart of the village and she’d broken the social order. My mother was very young, but she had a courageous heart.”

      “And your father?”

      “He didn’t forget my mother. The following summer he made the trip from Montreal to see her again. When he found out he had a son, he insisted on meeting her family. He wanted to marry her, but by then, she was just seventeen and her mother begged her to wait. My mother agreed because my father was on his way to France to carry out more research, and she was reluctant to leave her family and the village she’d known all her life. The plan was for him to return in the spring when they would wed.”

      “That must have been difficult. So much in love and so far apart.”

      “They wrote each other weekly and a few times he called. Over time, her mother softened to the idea of him and wedding plans began after Christmas. Tragically, my mother was struck by a car while out walking near dusk. It was a tourist passing through and unfamiliar with the roads. She died a few hours later.”

      “That is so sad.”

      “The entire village went into mourning. My father flew home and they waited for him before burying her. I was ten months old. He made an arrangement with my grandparents to let me stay with them while he finished school. He took me to Kingston when I was five and he was settled in the history department at Queen’s University.”

      “And he’s never left.”

      “No, he hasn’t. He dedicated himself to raising me and to a life as an academic.”

      “Did he ever marry?”

      “No. He never did. Now, what about you? Are you in the mood to tell your history?”

      “My story isn’t nearly as romantic.”

      “That’s okay.”

      She stared into the fire. “Both of my parents spent time in residential schools from age six to fourteen. If you know anything about that period, the federal government in its great wisdom travelled far and wide to scoop up Aboriginal children as young as six and placed them in boarding schools far from their homes. Many of the children died of tuberculosis in the schools or were abused in one fashion or another. They could go years without seeing their parents or families. The idea was to take the Indian out of the child, and the nuns and priests took their jobs seriously. The children weren’t allowed to speak their native language or practise their culture. When my parents returned home, it wasn’t long before both were alcoholics with no parenting skills to speak of. I was taken from them when I was three because of neglect. From there, I spent time in a succession of foster homes until I graduated from high school. I got a scholarship and went into policing.” She looked at him and shrugged. “End of story.”

      “Do you know what happened to your parents?” he asked.

      “Both died. I went in search of them one summer, and that’s how I found out. I was fifteen years old.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “It was a long time ago.” Her black eyes focused on his. Whatever she’d been thinking about had been put away, like shutters sliding into place. “Perhaps we can talk about the case now, before supper.”

      He nodded. “Tell me what you’ve got,” he said.

      She leaned forward. “A neighbour saw Tom Underwood in his driveway around six thirty the morning he went missing. I dropped in on Susan Halliday and met her military husband, Clinton. Susan told me the reason Hunter and his father hadn’t been on speaking terms for so many years, and it’s a bit mind-blowing. It seems Hunter brought his fiancée Laurel home to meet the family, and his father decided to have her instead.”

      “You mean, Hunter’s stepmother was supposed to marry him?”

      “Exactly. If that’s not a reason to murder, I don’t know what is.” Her voice rose slightly, the only way he knew she believed this was the key. She’d been so sure she had something, she hadn’t waited until the next day to tell him. He tried to fit it in with what he knew. It didn’t add up. Not yet anyway.

      “That happened several years ago. Why would Hunter resort to violence now?”

      “He and his father had just started speaking. It was a change in pattern.”

      “Agreed, but one might say a positive change. I know this family is neck deep in dysfunction, but we also have to consider Underwood’s business dealings. Malik tells me there may have been some iffy transactions. He and Grayson are tracking down the man Underwood was making a deal with this week.”

      Her eyes lost some of their brilliance. “Are you saying his murder was a business deal gone bad?”

      “All paths are still open. You’ve got a good lead here and I think you need to keep digging around his family. I’ll have Malik and Grayson work the business angle. I think we’re going to find it was somebody he knew and maybe trusted. Perhaps it was somebody who gains from his death financially.”

      “Laurel?”

      “She’s one to consider. Belliveau, his business partner, is another.”

      Rouleau’s cellphone rang in his pocket. He took it out and held it to his ear. “Rouleau,” he said. He listened and asked a few questions as Kala turned away from him to stare into the fire.

      “Some good news,” he said, putting the phone on the table. “That was Whelan. His son is out of intensive care and responding well to the antibiotics.”

      “Thank God,” said Kala.

      “Yeah, thank God. The other good news is

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