Angie clicked off her recorder and gathered up her photos and file. She put everything into her bag, came to her feet, and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Do you know if Jasmine ever gave birth to a baby?”
Rachel blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Had Jasmine ever had a child?”
Rachel stared. “No. I ... Heavens, no, not that I’m aware of.”
“In retrospect, was there anything she said that might support the notion she’d given birth?”
“No. I ...” The mistrust on her face turned to a look of suspicion. “I just wouldn’t have dreamed that possible. Why do you ask this?”
“Just a question that came up.”
“How did it come up? In the postmortem?”
“Nothing unequivocal.”
Rachel held Angie’s gaze, weighing her. Wind rustled fall leaves across the patio paving, and the air turned cool. “I just don’t see it.”
Doug appeared from the direction of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. Rachel glanced at him. “I’ve got to get ready for my call. Doug, could you fetch those documentary tapes for Angie?” She faced Angie. “It was nice meeting you.” But as she turned to leave, she hesitated, then swung back. “It’s probably irrelevant, but you’ll see it mentioned in some of the footage. There were three men following our boats. Up on the bank. They spooked some of the women. I believe that was their intention.”
“Followingyou?”
“I think they were part of a group of guys we met in the Hook and Gaffe pub on our first night. Bunch of drunk rednecks. Jaz antagonized them, and I think they decided to come mess with her, or all of us, as payback. I believe it was harmless, though. Just thought I’d mention it.”
“Jaz antagonized them? How?”
She gave a snort. “You’ll see on the footage. I managed to capture Jaz in full-blown action.” A pause. “It would have been a damn fine female-focused documentary. You’ll see that when you watch the tapes. The cassettes are all marked, and the scenes are listed on an accompanying inventory list.”
With that, Rachel disappeared down the hall, presumably making for her office.
CHAPTER 16
On her way to Colwood, a city that lay within the greater Victoria metropolitan area, Angie phoned Eden Hart and set up an appointment at her practice in Nanaimo. Doug had given Angie his daughter’s number along with the boxes of VHS tapes now on the back seat of her car.
She slowed her vehicle as she checked the numbers on the houses. She found the one she was searching for and pulled into the driveway. Neat lawn. Manicured flowerbeds. The kind of orderliness and subjugation of nature that seemed at odds with a lesbian couple who loved the wilderness and fishing untamed rivers. Or maybe that’s exactly why people like Willow McDonnell and Trish Shattuck did love the wilderness. It provided escape from the constraints of suburbia and social expectations.
Doug had told Angie that Willow and Trish, now sixty-three and sixty-six, had eventually managed to adopt a five-year-old girl from Korea. The adoption had come through about six months after the tragic Nahamish trip. They were now proud grandparents, which was evident by the toys littering their yard. Trish, Angie had learned, was retired but used her architectural landscape design skills for charity work. Willow still worked as a criminal defense lawyer for a legal aid clinic; much of her work these days was pro bono.
The front door opened before Angie had fully exited her vehicle. A compact woman in a red fleece, cargo shorts, socks, and Birkenstocks stepped onto the porch. As Angie climbed the wooden stairs to the porch, the woman came forward, her hand extended.
“Trish Shattuck,” she said, shaking Angie’s hand up and down heartily. Her smile was broad, her teeth square and bright against a face weathered and tan from the outdoors. Her silver brush cut grew slightly longer on top of her head and was spiked up with gel. She wore glasses with red-rimmed plastic frames. “Come on in.”
Inside, Angie removed her jacket and shoes and padded in socks along the hardwood floors as Trish led her into a large kitchen. Steaks marinated in a dish on the counter, and the room smelled of freshly brewed coffee and baking. Through the window Angie could see a small garden with a pool and a neat lawn. Two bug-eyed King Charles spaniels peered in through the slider, snouts smearing the glass. Trish opened the door and let the dogs in. They wiggled and sniffed around Angie’s jeans. She petted them, fur soft as silk.
“Willow will be through in a sec,” Trish said. “She’s in her office just finishing up a legal brief. Coffee? I have freshly baked oatmeal choc-chip cookies.”
“You bet,” Angie said with a grin. She’d had coffee at the Harts’, but the cookies and this coffee smelled too good to pass up.
“Take a seat.” Trish motioned to a stool at the granite counter. She took pottery mugs down from a cupboard and poured three cups of fresh brew. She set a mug in front of Angie along with cream and sugar followed by a plate of cookies. Angie snagged one, bit, closed her eyes.
“Oh, this is heaven. Did you bake them?”
“Heh, it’s about all I’m good for these days,” Trish said with a chuckle. “Amazing what having grandkids around can teach you. Ah, here’s Willow.”
Angie did a double take as the woman in her sixties entered the kitchen. She had the physique of an ex–ballet dancer, her movements liquid grace. Her features were fine, and her eyes were a clear, pale amber. She smiled, nabbed a cookie. “You must be Angie Pallorino?”
Angie got up and shook the lawyer’s hand. Willow bit into her cookie, assessing Angie in a way that made her feel a little naked. “Do you suspect foul play in Jasmine Gulati’s death?” she said, cutting right to the chase.
