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“It’s not funny, Mother.”
Maureen flinched. When had her daughter perfected that icy, cutting tone?
“I know it’s not funny. But I’m going to have to book an extra cleaning with my dentist if you don’t let me in soon.”
Something slammed. The toilet seat? The medicine cabinet? A second later the door opened, and Maureen lurched forward. Holly stepped back, unwilling even to touch her.
Indeed she’d been crying. Eyes red, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. Maureen longed to hold out her arms, but she knew—oh, how she knew—that her daughter would just back away.
“What is it, sweetie?” A familiar song on the radio, a dream about the old days—either of these, or any of a number of triggers—could have set her off.
“You are so insensitive. I can’t believe it.”
“What?” Maureen stepped to the side so Holly could leave the bathroom. A familiar sense of helplessness had her longing for the simplicity of a two-year-old’s temper tantrum.
“It’s a year today,” Holly burst out. “You didn’t even remember. Did you?”
In her mind, Maureen saw the date on the top of the newspaper she’d looked at earlier: May 3. Why hadn’t it clicked sooner? She was sure she would have remembered eventually. Maybe when she pulled out her Day-Timer at work or booted up her computer.
“I’m sorry, Holly.”
But her daughter had already taken off down the stairs. A second later, the door slammed.
Maureen swallowed an urge to scream, then went to the front window. She caught a glimpse of Holly from the back as she ran across the street toward school. Poor kid—she missed her father so badly.
One year ago today. It was hard to believe.
To Maureen, it felt as though Rod had been dead much longer.
TWO MINUTES AFTER SHE WAS in her BMW, Maureen was on the cell phone, the tiny attached speaker plugged into her right ear. At a red light, she speed-dialed her secretary.
“Looks like I’m going to be a little late for the partners’ meeting. Could you pull the files I was working on last week? And order me up a latte, would you, please?”
Next she dialed her youngest sister, Kelly, who lived with her new husband and his young niece and nephew in Canmore, a mountain haven about an hour to the west.
“Sis? Holly threw another crying fit this morning. Should I try a different grief counselor?”
Holly hadn’t seemed to benefit from sessions with two previous psychologists and Maureen had given up. But maybe she needed to try therapy one more time…
“It’s a year today, isn’t it?” Kelly said.
“Yeah.” Jeez, even her sister had remembered. What was the matter with her that the date hadn’t registered until Holly had pointed it out?
“It’s pretty normal for her to be upset. Honestly, sometimes it’s you I worry about more. You’re so busy being strong for Holly—”
Yeah, right. If Kelly only knew…
“She’s just twelve, Kelly. And she’s confused. She and Rod were close.” From Maureen’s point of view, almost too close. But that was just sour grapes, probably. Maureen couldn’t pinpoint the moment her doting toddler had begun running to Daddy when she had a problem, instead of Mommy. When Rod died, Maureen had desperately wanted to be there for her daughter. But Holly wasn’t interested in a substitute.
“Of course I understand how hard this is for Holly. But you have to consider yourself, as well. You’ve been working so hard, for so long. Rod had insurance, right?”
“Yes.” And lots of it. But only because she’d filled out the application for him, made him sign it, then paid the premiums every year. She’d discovered early in their marriage that she couldn’t count on Rod for anything.
A lesson Holly had never learned. No way could she admit that her darling father had died as a result of his carelessness. No. In her mind, his death had become her mother’s fault. As if Maureen had wanted him to climb that bloody mountain in the first place!
“Well, why don’t you take some time off work. You could use the break, and having you around more might help Holly.”
“I’ll think about it.” Maureen hung up the phone, dissatisfied. The answer wasn’t for her to spend more time with Holly. The last person Holly wanted to be around these days was her mother.
With the entrance to her underground parking lot in sight, Maureen switched lanes. Now her mood finally lifted. Soon she would be in her office, her sanctuary. Any problem that came up there, she would know how to handle.
THE LOUSY START TO THE DAY had been portentous. At the partners’ meeting, Maureen was urged to take on a new child custody case that would have her spending significant time in Edmonton, three hours north of Calgary. She used up her lunch break on the phone with Rod’s mom, who called from Winnipeg to commiserate on the sad anniversary.
Maureen listened, feeling for the woman’s pain, never letting on that their marriage had been less than perfect, that Rod had been other than the ideal father or that the accident had been anything but bad luck.
Maureen knew better, of course. Because, after almost fifteen years of marriage, she had known Rod.
Her husband had been addicted to extreme sports. Eighteen months ago, he’d decided he had to tackle Mount Everest. In preparation, he’d signed on with a team to climb Mount Aconcagua, a less-demanding peak in the Andes.
At more than twenty-two thousand feet, Aconcagua was the highest mountain in the world, except for those in the Himalayas. Though the ascent didn’t require technical expertise, it would give him an opportunity to see how his body reacted to the drop in oxygen at high elevations.
Unfortunately, altitude sickness had stricken him early on in the climb. Instead of moderating his ascent, Rod had tried to speed up. When his companions noted his growing disorientation, they’d urged him to slow down. But he’d refused until it was too late.
Death, Maureen was told later, can come quickly to those who ignore the early warning signs.
If Rod had gambled with only his life, Maureen could have forgiven him. But his loss had devastated their daughter, and that was hard to absolve.
Especially when Holly’s grief seemed to increase its hold with time rather than ease. First she’d lost interest in her friends; a few months later she’d dropped out of the school band. Her latest report card had revealed falling grades, and during parent-teacher interviews Maureen was told that Holly rarely paid attention in class and almost never handed in assignments on time.
With Rod gone, who, what, could help her now?
During dinner that evening, Holly was silent. When Maureen suggested they watch some home videos of her father after dessert, she relented enough to sort through the row of black cases in the bottom drawer of the entertainment unit.
Maureen stretched her feet out on the sofa as her daughter pressed Play. Seeing Rod’s face suddenly appear on the TV screen made her entire body tense. Across the room on the love seat, Holly pressed a tissue under her eyes.
Maureen had taken the footage from the back deck a couple of autumns ago as Rod and Holly were horsing around in the abundant piles of raked leaves that Maureen hadn’t had time to bag for composting. On the screen father and daughter tumbled and wrestled and shrieked with laughter. But in the tidy family room Maureen and Holly watched in silence.
Maureen was aware of Holly’s quiet weeping. She, however, didn’t shed a tear. Not until the camera caught Rod smiling at his daughter, reaching out to touch a strand of her almost white hair. The expression on his face was absolutely doting.
The dull pain in Maureen’s chest tightened. The video confirmed what she’d always known. Her husband had loved Holly. When he’d been around, he’d treated their daughter like a princess. And that was what Holly remembered about her dad.
Maureen pulled a tissue from the pocket of her jeans and blew her nose. No wonder Holly was so devastated by his death. What man would ever adore her the way her father had?
At ten o’clock Holly went to bed, and Maureen had the house to herself. She put away the videos, stacked a few glasses in the dishwasher, then brewed herself a little coffee, which she mixed with half a cup of hot milk and a teaspoon of sugar.
Memories of Rod and worries about her daughter were too painful to face. Instead she picked up the paper, and in a flash it came back to her. Conrad Beckett’s suicide. How could she have forgotten?
Now she read the article again, every word this time. The reporter had been thorough, delving into the event that had led Conrad to the breaking point—his daughter’s murder almost three years ago. Maureen had some personal knowledge of the case, since the tragedy had occurred on the ranch of her brother-in-law, Dylan McLean, several years before he’d married her middle sister, Cathleen.
It seemed impossible that in a crowd the size of the one gathered at the ranch that night no one had seen anything. Yet, that was what all the witnesses claimed. The weapon was never recovered. Kelly had been one of the RCMP officers assigned to the homicide. In her opinion, the case would probably never be solved.
That didn’t stop everyone in Canmore from having views on the matter. Initially, Dylan McLean had been the number-one suspect. Then later, when James Strongman ran off to Mexico rather than submit to police questioning regarding the subsequent murder of Rose Strongman, James was seen as the most likely villain. But his guilt remained unproved. Also unknown was whether Jilly had been an accidental target. Most people assumed that the shooter had been aiming for her father and missed.
Jilly’s death had been such a senseless act of violence. Who could have guessed that the barbecue would get so wildly out of control? What kind of monster brought out a gun at an event where a young girl was present?
Rubbing her eyes, Maureen sighed. Just the prospect of walking up the stairs and preparing for bed exhausted her. Some days it seemed such a struggle to put one foot in front of the other. She could almost understand how Conrad had felt….
Out of habit, she placed her mug inside the dishwasher and then set about getting ready for bed. As she brushed her teeth, she avoided her reflection in the mirror, just as she knew she’d avoided the truth about her daughter for months.
Physically, Maureen still had Holly by her side. But emotionally, they’d lost contact years ago. And Maureen had no idea how to go about regaining it.
Kelly thought Maureen needed to work less, be home more. They’d discussed this before today’s phone call. Given the demands of her law firm, Maureen knew that if she wanted to work less, the only option was to quit.
But then what would she do? Without her six-figure income, they couldn’t afford to stay in this neighborhood. They’d have to move—but where?
Only one place made sense. The mountain town where she’d grown up—and left to go to university—where her two sisters and their husbands now lived: Canmore.
She could start her own legal practice there. It would be much smaller and less stressful than her work here in Calgary. Equating to more time spent at home with Holly.
But Holly didn’t want to spend time with her mother. She’d probably hate the idea of moving. And surely an upheaval, just when she was beginning to adjust to junior high, would be a mistake.
Maureen left the bathroom and collapsed on her bed. God help her, she didn’t know what to do. All night, she tossed and turned. Finally, just before dawn, she dropped off. Her last thought was a prayer.
Send me a sign. Tell me the right thing to do for my daughter.
CHAPTER TWO
“YOUR PROFITS HAVE BEEN very healthy, Jake,” Harvey Tomchuk said between sips of his coffee. “But given the capital outlays you want to make this year, you could use a cash infusion.”
Jake Hartman liked the sound of the phrase. Sort of New Age—like a vitamin or herbal infusion. “Are you talking about a bank loan, Harvey? You know I’m not keen on debt.”
“No debt.” His accountant helped himself to another cup of coffee from the machine on the counter, next to the Dutch oven that Jake hadn’t gotten around to putting away after dinner. “I’m thinking of equity here, as in cash provided to the business by a new investor. Simple enough for you yet?”
“Oh, sure. Now I get it. You want me to find someone with half a mil to invest in my heli-skiing business. That should be a snap.”
“You could always ask Patricia.”
Jake snorted. He’d rather see his business fold than go into partnership with his mother. Not that he didn’t sympathize with her. She’d lost her husband when she was only thirty, and been left to raise on her own a rowdy boy she’d never been able to understand.
That had been tough for her, especially since she’d been determined to shape and mold that boy, who’d happened to be him, in the image of her late, idealized husband. And she’d never let her son forget what a terrible disappointment he’d turned out to be. He’d demonstrated no head for business, hated cities and was awkward and disagreeable at the society functions his mother planned her life around. For all his growing-up years, Jake had resented his mother’s efforts to control what he wore, how he spoke, the way he cut his hair.
The only times he felt free and happy were on his summer and Christmas holidays, which he’d spent with his uncle Bud McLean’s family, on the Thunder Bar M in Alberta. So it was no surprise he’d moved out here the day he’d finished high school.
His mother was furious and refused to so much as visit him. Out of guilt more than affection, he made an annual pilgrimage east so she could frown at him and heave great sighs of disappointment. Once a week he called to assure her he hadn’t killed himself on some godforsaken mountain.
Ask his mother for money? No way.
“I guess I’ll think of something,” he said. “How much, exactly, should I be looking for?”
Harvey circled the bottom number in a long line of figures. Jake winced.
“Of course,” Harvey pointed out, “you could avoid all this by lowering your standards just a tad. No one expects real linen in a remote mountain lodge.”
“Not a chance.” Jake wouldn’t even consider that option. Grizzly Peaks was his baby, his life. Already clients came from all over the world, willing to pay thousands of dollars for the opportunity to ski in the backcountry wilderness of the Rocky Mountains.
But he wanted more. Not necessarily bigger—in fact, definitely not bigger—but the best of everything. One day Grizzly Peaks would be the premier heli-skiing operation in North America.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll come up with something. You always do. By the way, planning any mountain climbing this summer?”
“My knees have really been bothering me lately.” A reminder that he was closing in on forty. Now he needed the four-month summer break from skiing to rest his old ligaments and joints.
Compounding the problem with his knees was his difficulty in finding a buddy to climb with these days. Slowly but surely his friends had gotten married and started families. A day off for climbing was a luxury they could rarely afford.
“You talk like you’re old, Jake. Wait until you’re in your seventies like me!”
“At least you picked a good profession. You’ll be able to keep running your business as long as your mind remains capable of adding and subtracting.”
“Yeah, but the question is, will I want to?” Harvey finished off his coffee. “Well, I guess we’re done here. I’ll put together the final financial proposal, then you can go out and try to find your money.”
Harvey gathered the papers into his briefcase, leaving a copy of the statements on the table for Jake. After a warm handshake, he shuffled out the door. Jake thought he’d left, but moments later the older man poked his head back inside.
“You forgot to take in your newspapers.”
There were two in the box. Jake subscribed to the Calgary Herald as well as the Canmore Leader. After waving off his friend, he took them both to the living room.
The headline in the Herald startled the hell out of him. Conrad Beckett had killed himself? God, what a nightmare that whole episode was turning out to be. Jake read the print on page one, then followed the story to page three. Most of it was old history; he knew the case well. In fact, he’d even started a scrapbook.
Now he went to the kitchen to get the scissors and tape, then to his desk, where he pulled out the binder he’d used to collect articles such as this one.
It wasn’t morbid fascination that drew him, but a combination of personal interest and family obligations. At one time popular opinion around Canmore had it that his cousin, Dylan McLean, was responsible for Jilly Beckett’s death. Now almost everyone thought James Strongman had done it.
James’s father, Max, was the current mayor of Canmore. He’d married Dylan’s widowed mother, Rose, a long time ago. After Jilly’s death, he’d convinced Rose to make out her will entirely to him, cheating Dylan of his father’s inheritance. Then, just when Rose had seemed about to change her mind and revisit her will in Dylan’s favor, she’d been murdered.
At first Dylan, who was known as a hothead, had been suspected again. Then evidence proving that he’d been set up was found. James, who had no alibi for the night Rose was killed, was the most likely culprit. But he’d escaped to Mexico rather than face police inquiries, and hadn’t been seen since.
A convenient and tidy impasse in Canmore’s two unsolved homicide cases. Jake, however, wasn’t so sure that James was the guilty party. Or if so, that he’d acted alone. And others in town shared his doubts.
Carefully, Jake cut out the article and the attached photos. He paused to examine them. First Jilly, then Rose, now Jilly’s father. Too many deaths, shrouded in too much uncertainty, for one small mountain town of only ten thousand people.
Jake picked up the local paper next. Ironically, on the front page of the Leader was a shot of Max Strongman and a bold heading: Canmore Mayor Won’t Run Again In Fall Election.
Well, that was good news. Jake snapped the paper, then peered again at the picture of Strongman. The man had a distinguished, statesmanlike air, but he was as wily as an old coyote, and manipulative to boot. Jake read about his plans to retire from public office to pursue “other interests.” Hah! Jake reached for the phone to call his cousin.
“Did you hear the news about Strongman?” he asked once Cathleen had passed the phone over to her husband.
“Wish I could say it was good news,” Dylan said. “But you know, the minute he’s no longer mayor of Canmore, he’ll be pushing that damn recreational housing project on my father’s land.”
“Next to the oil wells?”
