Serpents Rising Page 9

  “I don’t think I want to —”

  I jumped back in before she could hang up. “My wife died a few years ago. I’m trying to find a friend of hers named Kelly. My wife’s name was Donna Leybrand. I was hoping, if you were the Kelly Blakeley who attended Northern Horizon Academy in Calgary, that you might have known her.”

  There was a long pause. I was about to say, “Hello?” when the person on the other end of the line spoke.

  “I knew Donna. Well, actually, I knew who she was but we weren’t friends. She was a grade ahead of me. I … I heard she had died. I’m really sorry.”

  “Thank you, Kelly.”

  “It was a fire, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes … it was a fire.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I didn’t know your wife well but I’m sure she was really nice. She seemed nice, friendly and everything, at least that’s what I remember.”

  “You didn’t have any classes with her?”

  “No.”

  “How about mutual friends?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “There were two other girls named Kelly at Northern Horizon at the time you and Donna were there. Maybe you knew one or both of them — Kelly McKercher and Kelly Howe.”

  Silence again but I guessed she was thinking. I waited. “I sort of knew Kelly McKercher. She was ahead of me too, but I can’t remember if it was one grade or two. She was a cheerleader, one of the really pretty girls at NHA. I remember all the guys were sort of goofy about her.”

  “You had cheerleaders at Northern Horizon?”

  “Yes. Why wouldn’t we have?”

  “I don’t know. I guess when I think of private school I think sort of stuffy, you know — debating club, field trips to poetry readings. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t generalize.”

  “NHA wasn’t like that. I mean, we wore uniforms and I guess the academic standards were pretty high, but we had teams — not football, but basketball, volleyball, track, and we had cheerleaders.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  “No need to apologize. But didn’t Donna tell you about our school?”

  “No, she didn’t say much about it.”

  “Oh. Anyway, I heard Kelly McKercher married a golfer — one of those guys who works at a golf course, teaching people and selling equipment, that kind of thing.”

  “A golf pro?”

  “I guess so. I heard they ended up in Phoenix … at least I’m pretty sure it was Phoenix.”

  “You don’t happen to know their last name.”

  “Sorry, I don’t think I ever heard it, just that she married this gorgeous golf guy and moved to Arizona.”

  “How about Kelly Howe? Did you know her?”

  Another pause while she thought. “Sorry, doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “She was a year behind you — grade nine.”

  “Kelly Howe,” she said slowly. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Thanks for this, Kelly. I appreciate your time and trouble.”

  “It was no trouble at all. Good luck with finding the other Kelly. And I’m really … you know …”

  “I know. Thanks again. Good night, Kelly.”

  I hung up the phone and stared for a while at the picture of Kelly McKercher. She was pretty much gorgeous all right. I glanced at my watch. 11:25 p.m. The search for the golf pro in Phoenix who had married the Northern Horizon Academy cheerleader would have to wait until morning.

  Seven

  Lesson: There are a lot of golf courses in and around Phoenix.

  I Googled and copy/pasted phone numbers while I ate breakfast — multi-tasking. Breakfast a la Cullen was a long way from Bobby’s: slightly burned toast and chokecherry jam washed down with store-bought orange juice and two cups of coffee.

  By 9:30 I was on the phone making long-distance calls to golf course pro shops. One no answer and three answering machines. I decided not to leave messages, mostly because I couldn’t think of a way to say what I wanted without sounding like an idiot. The first four people I actually spoke with sounded like high school students moonlighting at the golf course between classes. The golf pro at all four either hadn’t arrived for work yet or was out on the course giving lessons. Two of the kids I talked to were sure the pro’s wife was not someone named Kelly, the third told me the pro was fifty-nine years old and the fourth laughed as he told me the pro’s name was Sandra, and no, she wasn’t married to Kelly.

  Call number nine netted me a partial. I actually spoke to the pro there. He was divorced and had been for “thirteen glorious years,” but he was pretty sure the pro at the neighbouring Sandstorm Golf and Country club had married a Canadian girl, though he didn’t know her name. I called the Sandstorm and was told that the pro, Wes Nolan, had left a few weeks before to take the senior pro job at the Duke, a course in Maricopa, Arizona, about forty-five minutes away.

  Next call was to the Duke, where I talked to yet another kid who sounded seventeen, learned the course was named for John Wayne, who had spent a lot of time in the area when he was alive, and that the new pro was off that day.

  “Do you happen to know his wife’s name?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Are you sure? Would you know it if you heard it? Kelly maybe?”

  “Sorry, I’ve only seen her once. I didn’t get introduced to her. Damn, you know what I mean?”

  “Hot?”

  “Mega.”

  “Any chance you can give me Wes’s cell or home number?”

  “Sorry, we’re not allowed to give out that kind of stuff.”

  I thought for a minute, cleared my throat, and decided to resort to good old-fashioned lying.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Paul.”

  “Listen, Paul, this is confidential too but I’m going to have to trust you. The reason we’re trying to track down Kelly is that her best friend back in Canada is seriously ill, as in we don’t know how long she’s got, and her final wish is to see her friend one more time. We need to speak to Kelly ASAP. I’ll guarantee you Wes won’t find out who gave us the number.”

  Pause. The kid was thinking. Turned out Paul wasn’t a fast thinker. I was beginning to think he’d nodded off or gone to the bathroom when he finally spoke. “This is for real, right?”

  I did sombre-voice. “I wish it wasn’t, but yes, this is very real.”

  “And Wes won’t find out who gave you the number?”

  Aw kid, shut the hell up and give me the number.

  “That’s a promise.”

  “Okay.” He recited the number. “That’s his home number. I’d be in real shit if I gave you his cell number.”

  “Fair enough. Thanks. I know Kelly’s friend won’t forget this.”

  I hung up, dialled the number the kid had given me, and waited.

  Three rings, then a female voice. “Hello?”

  “Hi. May I speak to Kelly please?”

  “Um … who’s calling please?”

  “I’m calling from Canada. My name is Adam Cullen and I’m looking for a high school friend of my wife. Her name was Donna Leybrand back then. She passed away some years ago and I was hoping to speak to Kelly used-to-be McKercher.”

  A few seconds of silence, then, “I’m Kelly. It’s Kelly Nolan now.” A kid screamed in the background. “Maddie, just a minute, Mommy’s on the phone.… Thank you, Maddie.” Then to me. “I met you at the wedding.”

  “I’m sorry. I met so many people I didn’t know that day.”

  She laughed. “I can imagine. Donna was totally popular, had a million friends.”

  “I know. Judging from the caterer’s bill, I’m pretty sure all of them were at the wedding.”

  Another laugh. “Can you hold on just a second?” I heard her set the phone down and speak to Maddie; it sounded like she was picking her up. I visualized the pretty ex-cheerleader getting Maddie arranged on her lap and the phone sorted out so she could talk and keep the kid settled at the same time.

/>   “There, that’s better. They always do this when you’re on the phone or if someone comes to the door.”

  “Maddie your first?”

  “Uh-huh. She’s a year and a half going on thirteen.”

  “Mind of her own.”

  “Oh yeah. The terrible two’s arrived way early.”

  “Listen, I don’t want to keep you, Kelly. I know you’re busy. You’re aware, of course, that Donna died in a fire.”

  There was a pause and a deep breath. When Kelly spoke again, her voice was strained. “I was sick when I heard it. It must have been terrible for you.”

  I paused. “Yeah, terrible is about how it was.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You may also know that the fire was deliberately set.”

  “I heard some rumours about that but I thought maybe someone just made that up.”

  “No, nobody made it up. They’ve never found the person who set the fire. I’m doing some looking into the possibility that there might have been something or someone in Donna’s past … someone who might have had some sick grudge against her. Do you happen to know of anyone like that? An old boyfriend or someone at school who was jealous of her? Anything at all?”

  “Okay, Maddie, we’ll have juice in a minute.” Another pause. “Sorry about that. Donna didn’t really have a lot of boyfriends … a couple of crushes but she … in high school she wasn’t like some of us, you know — all hormones and attitude. That wasn’t Donna.”

  “She told me she used to think of herself as the ugly duckling,” I said.

  “She wasn’t ugly, not even close … just not pretty, at least not then, partly because she didn’t spend a lot of time like some of us did trying to make herself look pretty.”

  “Yeah, vanity was never a big part of who Donna was,” I agreed.

  “But the part about the little duck that becomes a beautiful swan, that part was true.”

  “I know.”

  Neither of us said anything for a few seconds. I swallowed a couple of times, took a breath.

  “There’s no one you can think of, no one at all, who might have had a reason, even an imaginary reason, to dislike Donna?”

  She didn’t answer right away. “No, I really can’t think of anyone like that at all. I’m sorry.”

  “I came across a note in Donna’s high school or maybe college stuff, I’m not sure. It read, ‘Kelly, the bastard did it again.’ It was signed ‘D’. Then it looked like the person — Kelly — answered. Just one word, pig. Then the letter K beneath that as a signature. I thought maybe it was a note she might have written to you and that you answered and sent back to her.”

  “Just a second. I have to put Maddie down.”

  I could hear her talking to her daughter, then there was silence for what seemed like a long time.

  “Hi, sorry again.” A nervous laugh. “I think she should be okay for a few minutes. Toys, a cookie, Dora video — all Mommy’s best distraction devices.”

  “Hey, I’m a big Dora fan myself.” Trying to lighten things up.

  She laughed, didn’t say anything.

  “So that note … ‘the bastard did it again.’ Ring any bells?”

  “No, I don’t recall anything like that.” The answer came fast, a different feel to her voice.

  “Did you two write notes back and forth? I know lots of kids did that.”

  “Yeah, sometimes. It was way before texting, but I don’t remember any of them being important stuff. More silly teenage girl talk, you know?”

  “Was there someone at school she didn’t like? A guy in your class, or some other class, a teacher, someone outside the school?”

  “No, it’s like I said. Everyone liked Donna and she liked everyone. I mean, there were jerks in our school just like every school. And I’m sure there were people Donna wasn’t totally nuts about, you know? But I … I wish I could help you. Are you sure whoever set the fire wanted to hurt Donna?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I’m not sure of that at all. Kelly, would you say Donna was happy at school?”

  Hesitation. “I guess so. She was totally smart, got really good grades without having her hand up in class all the time to answer the teacher’s questions or ask questions of her own. You know, those students.”

  “Know them well. Pains in the ass.”

  “Right. Donna was smart without being a pain in the ass.”

  “You said she was popular, but did she have many close friends?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘many,’ but Donna had close friends for sure.”

  “Were you one?”

  “I guess I was,” Kelly said. “Yeah, I think you’d say that.”

  “But you can’t think of what that note might have been about?”

  “Sorry, it’s been a long time.”

  “Okay, well thanks, Kelly. Would you do me a favour? Can you take my number and if you think of anything, just give me a call?”

  “Sure. Your number is on my caller ID. I’ll write it down and if I come up with anything … I just don’t think I will, you know?”

  “Sure, thanks anyway.”

  I hung up the phone. Not satisfied. I had a nagging feeling that there was something Kelly hadn’t said. It felt like her tone changed — just a little, but it had changed — when I brought up the note. Like she did remember it and that it wasn’t just chatty teenager talk. But maybe it was me wanting something to be there.

  I drank another half cup of coffee, then pulled on sweats and a hoodie, went for a walk that became a run … a couple of miles. On my way back, I stopped at the Starbucks on 1st Avenue — part of the new look to Bridgeland since the city had imploded the old General Hospital, a victim of Alberta’s cutback mania.

  I drank the coffee quickly. Now that I was in action mode I didn’t want to sit back and just think about what was going on around me. I wanted to do something. I just wasn’t sure what.

  The walk back to the apartment only intensified my desire to be in motion. I started with a long lukewarm shower, then pulled on jeans and a T-shirt that celebrated spring training baseball. Cactus League. Arizona, home of Kelly Nolan, nee McKercher. For a few seconds I toyed with the idea of booking a flight to Phoenix, finding Kelly, and seeing if a face-to-face would yield more information than what I’d got on the phone.

  I abandoned that idea as madness, decided instead to go for a drive. The front seat of the Honda Accord that had succeeded the Volvo looked like the inside of a Dumpster. I gathered and tossed trash in the backyard garbage bin and headed out.

  I took 1st Avenue to Edmonton Trail, crossed the Langevin Bridge into downtown, rolled down 4th Avenue through Chinatown, Corb Lund’s Hair in My Eyes Like a Highland Steer CD playing loud because I needed some cheer-me-up music. Trouble is, it didn’t work, not even “The Truck Got Stuck.” I guess I just didn’t feel like light. I switched to an early Glenn Gould recording of “The Goldberg Variations.”

  Nothing if not eclectic.

  Cruising Chinatown got me thinking about Cobb and our efforts to track Jay Blevins. Maybe that’s what made me direct the car back toward some of the places Cobb and I had checked out two days earlier. I swung back east and drove by the Sally Ann; it looked quiet, almost closed, which I knew could not be the case. Next I cruised past the Goodwill store/food bank where I’d talked with Jill Sawley. I tried to get a look inside, but couldn’t see much. Finally my sojourn took me to Garry Street and the unfinished building that was home to Zoe Tario.

  The place — and the neighbourhood that surrounded it — didn’t look any more inviting in the daylight. I drove to the end of the block, made a U-turn, and pulled up across the street from the building. I dropped the volume of “The Goldberg Variations” to barely audible, and locked my doors but let the car run.

  I sat and watched in the late afternoon light, waiting for I wasn’t sure what, but while I watched, I had a thought that troubled me. Cobb and I had found Zoe without a whole lot of effort. If there were so
me badass types looking for Jay, how hard would it be for them to get this far? And if they found Zoe and wanted information … I shivered, pulled my collar up, and stared at the building, every once in a while glancing in my rear-view mirror.

  I stayed there maybe twenty minutes and decided that nothing much would happen in broad daylight so I did something else I hadn’t done since Donna’s death.

  I hit Peters’ Drive-In on 16th Avenue for a burger and a shake — both world class. I read the Herald while I ate. The two victims of the shooting on Raleigh had been identified. Freddie “Stick” Schapper and Lucius McGowan, twenty-eight and twenty-five respectively. Both men were known to the Calgary police. Not much more than that. And nothing on the killing of Larry Blevins. I left the paper and went back out to the Accord.

  Winter’s early darkness had settled around me and I decided to take another pass by Zoe’s place. I parked in almost the same place, probably not a good stakeout strategy, but I wasn’t thinking stakeout, not really. I wasn’t sure what I was thinking.

  There was one street light at the south end of the block a couple of hundred metres away and virtually no light at all coming from the building, the result of which left the street in as close to total darkness as I’d ever encountered within the city.

  I sat for an hour, not sure exactly what I was watching for and mostly wishing I’d had the foresight to bring along a coffee. I shut the car off a couple of times to save fuel, and both times started it again after about five minutes, opting for warmth and polluting the environment over conserving gasoline and freezing my ass off.

  No one had gone into or come out of the building in the time I’d been there. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if sud­denly a vehicle screamed to a stop in front of the building and three guys leaped out of the car carrying semi-automatic weapons and running for the rear entrance.

  I shut off the Honda for the third time and was contemplating that unpleasant scenario as a car did come into view in my rear-view mirror and pulled to a stop just behind me. I had one hand on the ignition key, just in case. Only one person climbed out of the car. It was too dark to see much, but I was pretty sure the person who was now coming alongside my car was a man and wasn’t carrying a gun, at least not out in the open. I’m also pretty sure I stopped breathing. I started to turn the key in the ignition.