Adam's Witness Page 4

  “It was about seven-ten. I think I got to the church just after seven. I started by looking for a source at the office, and left the newspaper about six forty-five,” said Grace, checking her notes.

  The sergeant and constable couldn’t conceal how impressed they were with Grace’s steady and specific testimony, and looked at each other with eyebrows cocked. It would be great if all witnesses were reporters, their expressions said, not for the first time.

  Fat chance. But Grace didn’t notice. She was too focused on her notes.

  “Did you know, or had you ever met the bishop?” asked James.

  “No, I had never met him, and I didn’t recognize him.”

  “Do you know anyone in the congregation?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I don’t think so. I mean, I’m not aware that anyone I know is a member of that church. I’m not Catholic,” she added in explanation.

  “Do you have any idea who may have killed him?” asked Adam.

  “No. Why would I? Oh . . . “ she trailed off, thinking of the Pride Chorus. Grace realized they might think she suspected Alan Haight or Bruce Stephens. But she didn’t, not really — at least, not Bruce. She had only spoken to Haight for a few minutes, and had neither a good nor a bad feeling about him.

  She shook her head again. “No.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Rampling. We appreciate you taking the time to come down.”

  “It’s no problem, really. I don’t know if I’ve been helpful?” She wasn’t sure what to say.

  “It’s early days. Everything helps right now. I’ll see you out. James, I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”

  “Okay, Sarge.”

  Adam Davis opened the door and gestured somewhat chivalrously for Grace to precede him into the hallway. He walked her to the front door, and thanked her again.

  “My pleasure,” said Grace, looking up at the tall officer with the big baritone voice, and then blushed, thinking her response was ridiculous. Except, it was true. “Feel free to call if you need anything else.”

  “Oh, I will, Ms. Rampling,” said Adam, eyes dancing just a bit. Obviously, he would call, for God’s sake, thought Grace. He was in charge of the case.

  For a second, they stood there, just looking at each other, Grace oddly unsure about how to end the conversation. Somehow, it didn’t feel like it was over. Then she pulled herself together and walked out the door, with a simple “goodbye, Sergeant.”

  “Goodbye, Ms. Rampling.”

  And that was that. He didn’t suggest that she was a suspect, and didn’t tell her what she could and couldn’t report, so it seemed all good . . . apart from the fact that Grace was very worried she wouldn’t be able to get his face, or his voice, out of her mind.

  Chapter 7

  Who killed the bishop? Grace wondered as she walked slowly back to the newspaper office.

  How old is Sergeant Davis? The thought intruded. Grace shook her head again, her usual tactic to clear unwanted thoughts. Stop it. He could be married, or gay, or messed up, or psychotic, or any number of things . . . but he seemed so kind, quite empathetic, for a police officer.

  Don’t go there, she told herself. It’s just too much work, and much too strange, since I’m a damned witness and he’s the sergeant on the case. That relationship would be a world of hurt.

  So, who did kill the bishop? She tried to focus on that thought. She was, of course, positive that the police were going to interview every single member of the Pride Chorus, and ask them all where they were between, say, four and seven on Sunday night.

  It was possible that one of the choir members lost his temper, she supposed, over being kicked out of the church. Was that really a motive for murder, though? It seemed ridiculous, but it could be. People did terrible things with very little provocation. The Pride Chorus was definitely made up of prime suspects one through fifty.

  It couldn’t be Bruce Stephens, though, could it? He seemed so thoughtful, if upset. It would be interesting to meet him in person, thought Grace. She could get a better gut feeling about what sort of a person he was; and maybe she could also get a longer interview on the issues facing the chorus, which might make a good read.

  Maybe I’ll call him when I get back to the office, thought Grace. How tall is Sergeant Davis? asked another cell in her brain. Damn.

  *******

  “Hello, Bruce Stephens? It’s Grace Rampling calling, from the paper.”

  “Hello, Grace. It’s me. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. I am, however, a witness in a murder investigation, which isn’t something I’ve ever aspired to, but otherwise fine. How about you?

  “I’m fine, too — although I am a suspect in a murder investigation, and I haven’t aspired to that, either. Isn’t this bizarre?”

  “It is. And I’m afraid you’re right, that you and the rest of the choir are going to fall under suspicion, but try to remember it’s just that you’re obvious suspects; it’s not personal.”

  “Well, I’ll try to remember that, but it’s still damned uncomfortable. Do I need to say, for the record, that I didn’t kill him and was nowhere near the place on Sunday?”

  “You don’t need to, but thanks for that. Remember that line when the police call. Listen, I’m wondering if you would be willing to get together and chat about all this. I’m thinking about a story on the chorus; it may balance the coverage, and we could talk about the issues a choir like yours faces. What do you think?”

  Bruce paused. “I’m not sure. I feel a little exposed as it is. But I do see what you mean. Maybe we could have a coffee or a drink or something, and just talk about it a bit more, face to face?”

  “That’d be great. When could we do that?”

  “Why don’t you meet me at Divas? Say, Wednesday night?” asked Bruce.

  “That would work. What time?”

  “Say eight? Before things get rolling at the club?”

  “Better make it nine. I might not have my story finished by eight. Would that be okay?”

  “It might start getting a bit loud, but we’ll make it work. I’ll see you there.”

  “And what do you look like, exactly?”

  “I will wear a rose in my lapel. I’m just over six feet, dark brown hair, blue eyes, hundred and eighty pounds. But I will find you. Remember, your picture is sometimes in the paper.”

  Ah, yes. The dreaded byline photo.

  “And if you don’t find me, I can always phone. See you in a couple of days, Bruce. And thanks.”

  “See you later, Grace. Don’t thank me yet.”

  *******

  Tuesday dawned as cold as the day before, ice crystals brittle in the air, the river generating so much steam that visibility on the Broadway Bridge was reduced to nearly zero. Saskatoon’s river never froze in the winter; the Queen Elizabeth power plant discharged so much hot water, the South Saskatchewan didn’t turn to solid ice until well upstream. That fact was a regular traffic hazard when the temperature dropped below minus twenty.

  Grace drove to work carefully, quite aware that she was distracted by the events of the last two days swirling through her brain and the image of Sergeant Davis’s face securely lodged in her mind’s eye. The road conditions were awful. Thank God she lived close to work, and didn’t have to take the freeway.

  Something else was nagging at her. Her mind searched all the files of her memory banks: what was it?

  Grace had an interview booked for nine-thirty, a date made well before the bishop’s death for a very different story on the pending construction of an enormous new commercial building. Usually, she loved that stuff, but now she was obsessed with the murder. She tried to set it aside, as she collected her gear from her desk and prepared for the morning’s work.

  “I think I’ll walk,” she said to Lacey. “It’s only four blocks, and God knows if I’ll find a parking spot.”

  “It’s cold,” warned Lacey.

  “I realize that,” said Grace, smiling at her friend, and putting her rather e
normous and very warm parka back on. “But it’s less frustrating than driving around the block twenty times. See you later.”

  *******

  Adam and James were in Adam’s office, planning their next moves.

  “We need to interview Bruce Stephens, James. And the choir director, the priest, and the church secretary. Can you get that lined up? I have to go to provincial court on the Lassiter case. I should be back in an hour or so.”

  “I’m on it, Sarge. See you later.”

  Adam always walked to court, if he had time. It gave him ten or fifteen minutes to clear his head, focus on the case ahead of him and — in the summertime, at least — enjoy the freedom of wandering the streets and people-watching. It was much nicer to walk to the Court of Queen’s Bench, which was perched rather elegantly overlooking the riverbank park, but provincial court was his destination today.

  It was a fairly routine case, and Adam was indeed finished in forty-five minutes. It was bloody awful out — the wind had kicked up considerably — and Adam was starting to regret not driving to court. Instead of heading straight back to work, he turned onto Second Avenue and ducked into the Starbucks, craving good, hot coffee. It was never so at the police station.

  Every head turned when Adam strode in. Sometimes he caught people staring at him, and he wondered why. Because of his size? He did look like a cop, he knew, even in plain clothes. But sometimes they were looking at his face. He’d been told he was handsome, and the number of women who had thrown themselves at him seemed to suggest it, but he never quite saw it. He just saw himself.

  He got in line and was waiting as patiently as possible when the door opened and an icy gust ushered in Grace Rampling, face pink from the cold, swaddled in her parka, her hair partly covered in a soft black scarf. As she joined the lineup, she drew the scarf down, shook out her curly mane, pulled off her gloves and opened her handbag.

  Adam contemplated her for a couple of minutes, aware of how much he was enjoying watching her, without her knowing. As the line moved along, they were eventually standing directly across the fabric barrier from each other.

  “Ms. Rampling,” said Adam, looking down at her. Adam almost never said hello. He got right to the name, or to the point.

  Grace, who was absorbed in reading her notes from the interview, looked up with a little start.

  “Hello, Sergeant. How funny to meet you here.”

  Adam smiled. “It is, kind of. We work a block away from each other, never met until two days ago, and now you can’t get rid of me.”

  “Not at all,” said Grace, politely. “How are you? How is the case going?”

  “Slowly but surely. May I buy you coffee?” asked Adam, stretching the barrier fabric as far as possible for Grace to duck under.

  “That’s very nice of you . . . please, don’t feel you have to, I’m fine . . .”

  “I’d like to, Ms. Rampling. Please. You’ve done a lot for us. Never allow anyone to offer you coffee at the station again, though. It’s vile.”

  The touch of humour seemed to break through Grace’s confusion; she laughed and slipped over to Adam’s side of the lineup. No one objected. No one ever objected to anything Adam did.

  “What would you like?” asked Adam, as they neared the till.

  “Mmm,” said Grace, perusing the options. “I’d love a latté, please.”

  Adam ordered the latté for Grace and an Americano for himself; they chatted about coffee preferences, and the relative merits of Starbucks over Tim Hortons, as they prepared to leave.

  “It’s awfully cold for March, even in Saskatoon,” said Grace, juggling her coffee, handbag and reporters’ gear as she tightened her scarf around her head. “I can’t wait for this to break.” Weather was always a safe choice of conversation.

  “Amen,” agreed Adam. “Are you from Saskatoon?”

  “Yes. Born here, and lived here most of my life, except for Regina while I was in journalism school. And I’m still not used to winter. How about you?”

  “I was born on a farm, near a very small town close to the Alberta border. My parents still farm there. I came here to attend the University of Saskatchewan.”

  “Did you? Why the U of S?”

  “I didn’t want to be too far from home — I like to help with seeding and harvest when I can — so I wanted a university in Western Canada. I came to check out the campus and I liked it best.”

  “And you stayed,” prompted Grace.

  “I applied for the police force right after graduating, made it in, and I’ve just stayed, yes. I really like Saskatoon. It’s beautiful — at least in the summer. How long have you been at the StarPhoenix?”

  “About seven years. I started right after J-school, and I’m happy there. Actually, I love it there. It’s a great place; and, my family is all here in Saskatoon. I’d really miss them if I moved away.”

  Grace’s face clouded, just for a second, and she quickly looked down when she mentioned her family. Adam wondered if he could ask why, but thought it might be a bit personal. He had only met Grace two days ago. But obviously, something caused that look.

  By now, they were almost at the police station. As if cued by the sight of the building, Grace changed the conversation on a dime.

  “You know, there’s been something bothering me all morning. About the case. It just clicked. I’m not sure if this means anything or not,” she said, then paused.

  Adam, a little surprised, chuckled and raised an eyebrow at the quick turn in the conversation. Obviously, she was just as interested in this case as he was.

  “That was a quick segue. But tell me. What are you thinking?”

  “Yesterday, just before I came to the station, Frank Stephens called me,” she said, a little reluctantly. “Frank is Bruce Stephens’ father. You know, Bruce from the Pride Chorus?” she asked, and Adam nodded.

  “I feel really uncomfortable about this,” Grace said, with a little sigh. “He seems like a nice man. But it was a bit strange. He called to thank me for the story on the choir getting kicked out of the cathedral; said it was hard to have a gay child, sometimes. That’s a bit unusual — he was also right that reporters don’t get a lot of positive feedback — but then he said to me, something like, ‘you must have had a late night.’

  “It may just have been something he said, to sound supportive. Or he may have said it because he knew I called Bruce for a comment mid-evening. But I thought it was odd. We kept the time of discovery out of the paper, at your request.”

  “So he was either making polite conversation, or he knows something and didn’t realize he was revealing that,” said Adam, mulling this piece of information over. “Thanks for telling me. That’s interesting.”

  They were both shivering at the door of the station. Adam had an interview ahead of him, and Grace had to get back to work.

  “I better get going,” said Adam, reluctantly. “I have an interview with the choir director. If you think of anything else, please call me,” he added.

  He realized he didn’t want her to leave; didn’t want to stop talking with her. Suddenly he was thinking, please call me if you notice the sun going down. Or the traffic light turning green.

  “I will. And I better get back to work before I freeze to death out here. Sergeant, thank you so much for the coffee. That was lovely.”

  You’re lovely, thought Adam.

  “You’re very welcome,” was what he said. “Least I could do.”

  “Goodbye, Sergeant,” said Grace, turning to head to the StarPhoenix.

  Adam didn’t go inside, just yet. He watched her walk down the street, head up and shoulders straight despite the hunching cold, her slim figure obscured by the voluminous parka, silky auburn curls escaping from her scarf. He had watched her eyes for ten minutes as they talked, intrigued by how dark brown the irises were, how enigmatic that deep colour made her gaze. Now he was watching her back, her graceful walk, the shape of her. As much as possible, considering the parka.

  Som
ething stirred in Adam. Something he had never been sure he would ever feel; that he was even incapable of feeling. It was very disconcerting. He pushed the feeling down, and went inside.

  *******

  The interview with Alan Haight didn’t take very long. Haight had booked a rehearsal with the chorus soloists from three until six in the afternoon on Sunday. Then he had driven one of them home, stayed for a drink, sworn up a blue storm and gone home. He had also made a lot of phone calls.

  If he was telling the truth, he had alibis for the murder window of opportunity.

  “What did the church secretary say, when he called you?” asked Adam.

  The call had come to Haight’s cellphone right after rehearsal had begun. “He simply said the church had decided to cancel our concert; that it was unseemly. I argued, but he wouldn’t say any more, just repeated that. I asked whose decision it was, and he just said the church.”

  “How quickly did you inform the choir?

  “The four of us split up the list and called everyone we could reach right away. I think maybe we couldn’t get in touch with ten, or so. There was little point, at that moment, in continuing with the rehearsal.”

  “I’ll need a list of the ones you reached,” Adam said.

  Haight paled, as the significance of this sunk in, but nodded.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Haight. Please let us know if you have to leave town.”

  “Right. Okay. Goodbye, Sergeant, Constable.”

  Well, they learned a few things. Hopefully, Adam thought, they would learn more tomorrow, from the priest and the secretary.

  He returned to his office, and replayed the tape of Grace Rampling’s testimony. He told himself that he wanted to review it. But that wasn’t really true. He had pretty much memorized everything she had said.

  He wanted to hear her voice.

  Chapter 8

  It was after eight on Wednesday night by the time Grace finished a follow-up story on the bishop’s death, known in short as a folo in newsrooms. It really wasn’t much of a story, but at least it kept the murder in the paper.

  Grace headed to the women’s bathroom to freshen up. She didn’t usually wear a lot of makeup, but she did want to look like she was going out, not going to bed.