Holly Martin Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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forehead. His arms were strong, and knobby, hairy legs protruded from his tan shorts. She recalled that he also wore sandals with white socks. “You can’t imagine, or maybe you can in your line of work. It’s just impossible that this could have happened to Angie.”
In minutes, they turned into Les’s RV and Camping, following Gable’s directions to the group area at the forested rear section beside the showers and washrooms. Chipper turned off the vehicle and excused himself. Holly led Gable to a picnic table, where Chucky began to nibble on grass.
He told her about the activities the day and night before, leading to the discovery of the body and the steps to contact the authorities. In the second stage of the interview, she began writing.
“And her full name is...please spell it, too.” She poised with her pen, listening as he proceeded.
“Angie Didrickson. Our star swimmer. Butterfly champion of the province.”
Now the physique made sense. Holly jotted more notes. “A reliable girl then. She’d have to be to undergo that kind of discipline and training.” She paused, her memories searching back. “But Notre Dame doesn’t have a pool, does it?”
“No,” he said, “but we have an arrangement with Seaparc. Angie and a few other diehards would be there at seven every morning to practice.” He wiped at his eye. “She was headed for a full scholarship to the University of London. Her dad was so proud, and so was the school.”
“And her mother?” Holly felt herself wanting to understand that this victim was a human being with a life behind her. Was it worse to die at eighteen or to disappear in your forties? Unholy balances.
“Grace Didrickson died in an auto accident a few years ago.
Nate did a damn fine job raising her and her little brother.”
“And the last time you saw her...”
He gave a sniff, pulled out a handkerchief, and honked his small, beaked nose. “You mean...”
“Of course. Alive.” She cautioned herself to show more patience, even though the questions were obvious. This wasn’t a race. Slow and sure, Ben would say.
“That would be last night at the campfires. A sing-along. Marshmallows, the traditional thing. Started near dark, around nine. The chaperones and I had our own blaze, but I made the rounds from time to time to keep everybody honest, not that I was counting heads. You have to give kids some degree of trust. And you can’t expect them to be tucked in by ten.” He smoothed his thick hair, a cowlick raising a stubborn shock. “I’m sure on the perimeters the usual vices were present. Cigarettes, a can of beer, maybe even a joint or two. But not in sight.”
“So you saw her as late as...” She kept her pen poised. Reports with initialed changes were frowned on.
On the road, the guttural roar of a motorcycle caught their attention. Whimpering, the dog started running circles, entangling the lead, and Gable kept trying to undo it. “Chucky, stop.” He looked at Holly with a plea. “Can I tie him to a tree over there? This is distracting.”
“Sure.” String him up was more like it. Holly hated illbehaved, aka ill-trained animals. If any dogs were neglected in obedience matters, the small varieties were. Much easier to scoop up the thing and tuck it under your arm than teach it manners. German shepherds had to be under control, at one with their master, their partner. She missed that bond.
On his return from attending to Chucky, Gable said, “Now where were we? Oh, right. The time. Somewhere near eleven. It was pitch dark. I don’t have one of those glow model watches. Anyway, the kids seemed to be heading off to bed without problems.” He gave an ironic laugh. “That’s how much I knew. Jesus, she was out there and—”
“It must have been difficult in the dark. And you can’t put a teacher in every tent. How many students are on this trip?”
“About forty-five. Our graduating class, minus a few who had other things to do. Not all the kids like camping. On the weekends, some head for Victoria for the music scene, whatever that is now. I’m still listening to the Beatles. Sort of retro at my age. At least I’m not into Elvis like my wife’s family.” A flash of embarrassment crossed his face. “Listen to me going on. Guess I’m nervous.”
“Everyone reacts differently to this kind of stress. Take your time. Tell me about your chaperones.”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “Me, Kim Bass, who teaches English, and Terry Grove, our coach. I blame myself for the short staff. We should have done more to find someone to help or postpone the trip. Father Drew would have come, but he had to take mass to a shut-in.”
She thought of the difficulty of juggling all those teens and their hormones. “Just three, then.”
“I know what you’re thinking. That’s fifteen each to keep track of. But the school has had a fall trip since it was founded in 1950. That’s a long tradition. There was a bit of pressure. Established dates for future weekend activities. The kids would have been disappointed.”
Holly’s idea of camping was to grab a backpack and head into the wilderness with her dog. “So who was in Angie’s tent?”
Gable took a list out of his jacket pocket. “Just Janice Mercer. She’s very shy. These trips build self-esteem. Students like that I didn’t want to disappoint. Having a successful senior year can make all the difference. Rites of passage. Ninety-five per cent of our students go on to university. Edward Milne can’t compete with that.” He referred to the public secondary school in Sooke.
Holly glanced at her watch. This was taking too much time. Though in charge, she couldn’t and she shouldn’t do all of the interviews herself. The students might appreciate a younger officer....provided that they held no racial prejudices. And even if they did, Chipper had to face his demons like she’d dealt with Playboy centrefolds on her locker during training.
Calling Chipper over, she directed him to sort out those with helpful information. She’d take the two teachers, and if his numbers were high, share the students. “I’ll need you to explain the layout,” she said to Gable.
At the campsite, a few dozen students sat on logs and stumps, on the ground, at picnic tables or milled in the area with pop cans or bags of chips. Gable pointed out a village of tents in various sizes. He, Coach Grove and Kim Bass each had a small pup tent. The students slept in the other eight, two, three, four, depending on tent size. Gable introduced the teachers to Holly. Chipper, in his usual organized fashion, had lined up the students and was talking to each one privately. She was impressed at the way he’d sorted everyone out without a ruffle. Even in the sombre moment, some of the girls seemed entranced with him, heads together in chatter as they watched him.
Grove, a fit man in his late thirties, hadn’t seen Angie after dinner. Muscles corded on his weightlifter’s body as he fastened an expensive mountain bike with front and rear shocks onto a carrier. Smelling faintly of herbal soap, he wore denim cutoffs, a polo shirt with Notre Dame Saints and a halo logo, and hi-tech sandals on his large feet. He repeated Gable’s praise of the school’s star swimmer and ran a hand over his curly black hair, prematurely thinning at the temples.
“With her training, I find it strange that she drowned,” Holly said, leaving an implied question.
He bit his lip and looked at the ground, where a line of ants was reaping the crumbs of campers. “A cramp. Alcohol. Kids make bad decisions. Maybe this was her first and last drink. Nate is going to take this hard. She’s his princess.”
“Paul Gable mentioned his suspicions that someone brought liquor. Do you know she was drinking? Did you see or smell anything?”
He bristled at the implied accusation. “If I had, I would have confiscated it. No one on our teams drinks during training, or they’re out. But Angie’s the last—”
“How about her friends?” At Notre Dame, everyone knew everyone’s business.
“She was