Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
Читать онлайн книгу.
filled with yellow lined paper, Whitehouse made a note with a silver pen, underlining it decisively. “So talking to that Jones fellow, that’s something your people can handle. What else do you do around here in Malibu but give parking tickets?”
Were it possible for a woman to feel unmanned, Holly knew the sensation. “Well, I—”
“Now what about these students? What’s your contact number at the school? Who’s in charge? I’ll do those interviews myself. Let you see how it’s handled. Turn on the speakerphone and make the calls.”
Assigned to her place as a secretary, Holly picked up her notebook, one hand shaking slightly. She’d have to watch everything she said and did. Chipper was right about Jeff Pasquin. If anyone had a grudge against Angie, he did. But what about his alibi? She reached Paul Gable at the school after someone had gone looking for him.
“Cost cuts throughout the diocese mean that I have to teach a class in auto shop to fill in for a man out on sick leave this week. I used to be pretty good with cars, but I’ve forgotten more than I learned.”
His complaining voice made her wonder if teaching, for all its perks, was such a breeze. She was still thinking about those boys on the beach.
“But listen to me droning on. What can I do for you?”
Whitehouse was leaning forward and motioning to her, speeding up his hand like an old-fashioned movie camera. She told Gable that West Shore had sent someone to investigate the case.
“A detective?”
“We call them inspectors. British touch, I guess.”
A hmmmmm came over the line. “I hate to see the students going through this again. They’re just settling down. Still, you know your job. Guess the top brass wants you to be as thorough as possible.” She could see Whitehouse narrowing his eyes. Why didn’t he take the call? Though she sat still, inside she wriggled like a worm on a hot griddle. And this was making her look like a fool to Gable, not that she cared. Why did Chipper think Gable was “creepy”? Some male thing? He wasn’t her type, but some women might find him attractive.
“I doubt that we’ll need to talk to more than a few students.” To save time, she decided to pick his brain while she had him on the phone. “We’ll be sending a car for those we want to interview. Anyone under eighteen needs a parent or guardian.”
“What, today? This may take time.”
“We don’t have the inspector with us for long. I’m hoping this can be arranged.”
“You’re taking them to the station?” Incredulousness made its way into his mellow voice. “Isn’t that a little harsh? Last time you only—”
Whitehouse snatched up the phone. “This is Inspector Whitehouse. I need to lay a little groundwork here. I’m sure that as a senior administrator, you’ll cooperate fully.” He looked at the names on a sheet Holly had indicated and adjusted his glasses. “What can you tell us about...”
Gable needed to access the records, but in a small school, he soon had what he needed. Jeff Pasquin had been an A student until the last year. Then, except for phys ed, his grades had dropped to B’s and the occasional C. Teachers blamed the extra hours of swimming training. And at home, his parents were in the late stages of a divorce, albeit amicable. Paul added, “Divorce is always a heartbreak, especially for a Catholic family. Used to be you could get an annulment if you had connections.” He paused as if unsure whether to go on. “Ray Pasquin converted for his wife. Guess it didn’t take. Marriage is no picnic. You have to work at it.”
Whitehouse started to rub his hands, then stopped as he saw Holly watching him. “Yes, yes, now let’s move on, please.”
When they had finished the call, they heard Chipper returning, talking to Ann. Whitehouse said, “Send the constable for Pasquin. We’ll take it from there.” He folded the glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “He’ll be our focus. We’ll get some answers.”
After her nod, he rose and stretched. His stomach gave a low rumble. “Where’s a decent place to eat? Is there a tapas restaurant? Anything ethnic?”
“We don’t have the population year-round for much variety. Try Mom’s. Turn left in Sooke between the post office and the stoplight. You’ll see the sign. Their specials are good, especially the sirloin sandwich au jus. Huge burgers, too. Great pie.” She felt defensive, like a self-appointed ambassador for the tiny village. This was the only human trait he’d exhibited, and she couldn’t accommodate him.
In the bathroom, she wiped moisture from her face and applied an extra layer of deodorant. That man could wring sweat from a dried codfish. And catch that classy suit. Except for undercover officers, inspectors wore the same uniform as she did, except for a white shirt and a tie in the summer.
Rummaging in her bag, Holly unwrapped a bologna sandwich on rye and checked out one fact that had bothered her. She found Tim Jones’s number in Port Renfrew and caught him at home, bringing him up to speed. He mentioned that the night that Angie had disappeared, two boys named Billy Jenkins and Mike Baron had come into the park with their bikes. He’d cautioned them not to take the bikes to the beach and watched them chain their rides to a post. Never having seen them leave later, he suspected that they had camped in the park. “Not too much you can do about it,” the ranger said. “Too big a place. But they could have been way down the beach. Lots of driftwood for campfires around the point.”
“Do you know them well?” she asked.
He gave a hearty roar. “Hell, everyone knows everyone here. I can tell you whose marriage is shot, who’s sleeping with who, who’s broke from online gambling, and who will front at the liquor outlet to buy for minors.” He paused. “They’re decent boys, though. Polite, and big as they grow. Seniors at Edward Milne. Gotta give ’em credit for sticking with it and not dropping out.”
Not much had changed on the south coast. “Farther west you get from Victoria, the tougher the kids,” she added.
“Damn straight. Grow up in Rennie, you take a lot of shit,” he said. “Wonder what kind of education they get, spend half the day on the bus. Can’t do homework with that rough road.”
He gave her Billy’s address east of town. His father did carvings and had a small fish boat that took tourists out for salmon and “hali” in the summer. The rest of the year, they put food on their table by selling wood and shooting the odd deer. “Wouldn’t put it past them to have a bait yard with apples. But we can spare a few Bambis. Better than ending up on the grill of a car.” Leaping deer road signs crisscrossed the area, and everyone knew someone who had had a close encounter.
Not long after, Whitehouse returned with a sleepy expression and a trace of ketchup on his upper lip. He must have ordered the cartload of fries. She told him about the Port Renfrew boys. “You can handle that. I’m not driving out to hell and gone.” He left her office and headed for the restroom. Water ran for several minutes.
“Bringing in Jeff Pasquin,” Chipper said in an unusually formal voice. “And his grandmother, Mrs. Faris. The parents are in Vancouver on some legal matters.” His face was without expression, except for a nuance of a rise in one sleek brow. He caught Holly’s glance and gave a silent click to his heels.
“Come in, please,” Holly said. She and Whitehouse had set up in the interview room.
His prim glasses nowhere in sight, Whitehouse sat at the scabbed wooden table while Holly took a chair to the side, once again prepared to act as secretary. She wasn’t averse to learning interviewing techniques. Whitehouse’s experience gave him the advantage. She also realized that she might discover what not to do, and she smiled to herself.
Mrs. Faris, a nervous woman under five feet and bent from osteoarthritis, took a chair with a padded seat in the corner. She wore an old-fashioned housedress and running shoes, one of the toes cut out for a monster bunion. Her pudding face had bright red lipstick and a heavy coat of powder. The atmosphere was charged with