background—furniture, views out windows, that kind of thing.”
“And you think she lives in Algonquin Bay?”
“Either lives there or visits there. We’re not a hundred percent sure. The stuff’s already on its way to you by courier. Let us know what you think. If it is Algonquin Bay in the pictures, we’ll do everything we can to help you, but obviously the case would be yours. Now aren’t you glad I remembered you?”
But not even a phone call like that could distract her for long; John Cardinal kept invading her thoughts. His desk was right next to hers, and it was extremely unusual for him to miss a day of work. Even when his father had died, he hadn’t taken more than a day off. It might be good for the department, she figured, but it was probably on the whole a weakness rather than a strength to be incapable of leaving your work.
Delorme recognized that she herself was much the same. She got bored on her days off, and when the end of the year rolled around, she usually had a couple of weeks’ vacation pay coming to her.
She looked at the photograph of Catherine on Cardinal’s desk. She must have been at least forty-five in the photograph, but retaining more than her fair share of sexiness. It was there in the slightly sceptical gaze, the glint of wetness on the lower lip. It was easy to see how Cardinal had fallen in love. But what have you done to my friend? Delorme wanted to ask her. Why have you done this unforgivable thing? Then again, why does anybody do it? She could remember several recent cases off the top of her head: a mother of three, a social services administrator and a teenaged boy, all dead by their own hands.
Delorme opened the notebook she had found in Catherine’s car, a small standard-issue spiral with Northern University printed on the cover. Judging by the contents, it had served as a sort of catch-all. Phone numbers and names were scrawled at odd angles alongside recipes for mushroom bisque and some kind of sauce, reminders to pick up dry cleaning or pay bills, and ideas for photographic projects: Telephone series—all shots of people on phones: pay phones, cell phones, two-way radios, kids on tin cans, everything . And another: new homeless series: portraits of homeless people, but all fixed up and dressed in good suits, point being to remove as much of their “otherness” as possible. Some other way? Less contrived? On the next page she had simply written: John’s birthday .
Delorme had the pen as well. It had been in Catherine’s shoulder bag along with the notebook. A simple Paper Mate, with very pale blue ink. Delorme wrote the words personal effects on a sheet of paper and compared it with the notes. It was the same ink—as far as one could tell without a lab test.
And then there was the note itself. The handwriting appeared to be the same as that in the notebook. The minimalist J in John , the t in other crossed and looped over the h in both the notebook and the suicide note. That terrible note, and yet the handwriting did not appear to be any more emphatic or wobbly than the rest of the jottings. In fact the note was a good deal neater, as if the decision to die had brought with it an untouchable calm. But you had a good man, a loving, loyal husband. Why did you do this terrible thing? Delorme wanted to ask her. No matter how much pain you were in. How could you?
She placed all three items in a padded envelope and sealed it.
A few hours later that envelope was open on the kitchen table of John Cardinal’s house on Madonna Road. Kelly Cardinal was watching her father carefully flip through the spiral notebook. The sight of her mother’s handwriting made Kelly’s heart liquefy in her chest. Every now and again her father made a note in his own notebook.
“How can you stand to look at that stuff, Dad?”
“Why don’t you go in the other room, sweetheart? This is something I have to do.”
“I don’t know how you can bear it.”
“I can’t. It’s
“And you think she lives in Algonquin Bay?”
“Either lives there or visits there. We’re not a hundred percent sure. The stuff’s already on its way to you by courier. Let us know what you think. If it is Algonquin Bay in the pictures, we’ll do everything we can to help you, but obviously the case would be yours. Now aren’t you glad I remembered you?”
But not even a phone call like that could distract her for long; John Cardinal kept invading her thoughts. His desk was right next to hers, and it was extremely unusual for him to miss a day of work. Even when his father had died, he hadn’t taken more than a day off. It might be good for the department, she figured, but it was probably on the whole a weakness rather than a strength to be incapable of leaving your work.
Delorme recognized that she herself was much the same. She got bored on her days off, and when the end of the year rolled around, she usually had a couple of weeks’ vacation pay coming to her.
She looked at the photograph of Catherine on Cardinal’s desk. She must have been at least forty-five in the photograph, but retaining more than her fair share of sexiness. It was there in the slightly sceptical gaze, the glint of wetness on the lower lip. It was easy to see how Cardinal had fallen in love. But what have you done to my friend? Delorme wanted to ask her. Why have you done this unforgivable thing? Then again, why does anybody do it? She could remember several recent cases off the top of her head: a mother of three, a social services administrator and a teenaged boy, all dead by their own hands.
Delorme opened the notebook she had found in Catherine’s car, a small standard-issue spiral with Northern University printed on the cover. Judging by the contents, it had served as a sort of catch-all. Phone numbers and names were scrawled at odd angles alongside recipes for mushroom bisque and some kind of sauce, reminders to pick up dry cleaning or pay bills, and ideas for photographic projects: Telephone series—all shots of people on phones: pay phones, cell phones, two-way radios, kids on tin cans, everything . And another: new homeless series: portraits of homeless people, but all fixed up and dressed in good suits, point being to remove as much of their “otherness” as possible. Some other way? Less contrived? On the next page she had simply written: John’s birthday .
Delorme had the pen as well. It had been in Catherine’s shoulder bag along with the notebook. A simple Paper Mate, with very pale blue ink. Delorme wrote the words personal effects on a sheet of paper and compared it with the notes. It was the same ink—as far as one could tell without a lab test.
And then there was the note itself. The handwriting appeared to be the same as that in the notebook. The minimalist J in John , the t in other crossed and looped over the h in both the notebook and the suicide note. That terrible note, and yet the handwriting did not appear to be any more emphatic or wobbly than the rest of the jottings. In fact the note was a good deal neater, as if the decision to die had brought with it an untouchable calm. But you had a good man, a loving, loyal husband. Why did you do this terrible thing? Delorme wanted to ask her. No matter how much pain you were in. How could you?
She placed all three items in a padded envelope and sealed it.
A few hours later that envelope was open on the kitchen table of John Cardinal’s house on Madonna Road. Kelly Cardinal was watching her father carefully flip through the spiral notebook. The sight of her mother’s handwriting made Kelly’s heart liquefy in her chest. Every now and again her father made a note in his own notebook.
“How can you stand to look at that stuff, Dad?”
“Why don’t you go in the other room, sweetheart? This is something I have to do.”
“I don’t know how you can bear it.”
“I can’t. It’s
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