A cruel light, p.1
A Cruel Light, page 1
A CRUEL LIGHT
A NOVEL
CYNDI MACMILLAN
To My husband, Colin, my anchor, and our daughter, Verity, my sail
PROLOGUE
June 12, 1957
THOMAS MACGOWAN KNEW he was being watched and exactly who was watching him. He stopped crossing his front yard, lit his pipe, and took a long, thoughtful puff. Maybe Robin could clean out the garage instead of missing out on their weekly father–son fishing trip. The boy had been caught sneaking his first beer with two of his buddies in a neighbour’s sugar shack. MacGowan wondered if he was being overly harsh. Naw—his own father would have tanned his hide, made him stand on a stool for an hour, then ordered him to bed without a bite to eat.
Frustrated, almost angry, he kept his head down. Better not look up at that dormer window, or he’d be swayed by those sad, puppy eyes. He was already too soft with the boy. Misbehaviour required consequences. Dammit, life had lessons! MacGowan marched to his Chevy, jumped inside, and motored toward the river, smoke billowing around him like fog as the sun pierced the horizon.
It would be a good day. Bess had woken up early, too, and offered to fry him bacon and eggs. He’d given her a long kiss and told her he’d already had a large bowl of porridge. She shared a pot of tea with him and added a hunk of banana bread to his lunch pail. Before returning to bed, she once again reminded him about the family of mice in the crawl space. His tender-hearted wife had no stomach for things like traps or poisons.
He’d forgotten how still the world could be at dawn. Robin had a bad habit of whistling, frightening away the fish. The boy barraged him with questions and knock-knock jokes while those gangly limbs of his swished about, to and fro … yes sir, a little time alone would be nice for a change. Perhaps he would actually catch something.
He tromped through the high grass, passing the tree that Robin said looked like a funny old gnome. An owl perched on its highest branch and swiveled its head to glare at him, as if annoyed by his intrusion. The sunrise was picture-postcard material, too pretty for words. He made his way down the path, frowning at a string of lights. They shouldn’t be there. His stomach tightened at the unmistakable metallic stench that brought him back to Dieppe, to a bloodbath.
A part of him wanted to run in the opposite direction, run like hell, and yet he continued heading toward the river, preparing himself.
But when he saw the body, he sank to his knees. Too young. Oh God, too young for such a horrifying death! He squeezed his eyes shut and moaned, filled with a guilty relief this child was not his.
Robin was at home. Safe. For now.
CHAPTER
1
October 2, 2019
FELICITY STREET WAS mostly what I’d imagined it would be. Its pebbled driveways swelled expectantly with canoes and ATVs—sundries for cottage country. I’d anticipated the neatly stacked woodpiles and cheery flagpoles, the browning lawns peppered with Adirondack chairs and scraggily hedges. But some things cannot be foreseen. Besides, people in my line of work are never called out to crime scenes. Ever. So, when I reached my destination, only to find it boxed in by four police vehicles—one being a forensics van—I stupidly kept gawking, bumped the curb, and nearly flattened a cat. It streaked away in an orange blur as I straightened the wheel and parked the car, posthaste.
I continued to sit there, ogling the lanky constable who was planted like a signpost at the same address that I had typed into my GPS eleven hours earlier. Wary and more than a tad agitated, I polished off my water bottle before hauling myself from my seat. The drive from Montreal to Northeastern Ontario had been draining, and I was becoming tetchier by the minute, the brusque autumn air doing little to improve my mood.
Why the police presence? Without the barricade, I’d have guessed vandalism, could imagine bored teens embellishing portraits of retired pastors with Godzilla-sized genitals. After all, I’d been forewarned the job required discretion. Lilith had cautioned me this wouldn’t be any run-of-the-mill art restoration, like such a thing existed. She’d said—actually, she’d said very little, but her uncharacteristic vagueness did what she’d meant it to do: lured me here. It would have served her right if I’d hopped back into my lemon of a vehicle, chucked a U-ey and hightailed it to the nearest motel, but I stood there, shivering in the cold, feeling both puzzled and miffed.
I leaned back against my SUV and scoped out the property. The lofty Victorian appeared to be in duress. Tape cinched the former parsonage’s wrought iron gate, barring it with a cautionary yellow, and heavy equipment had rutted its yard. Wind stirred up damp leaves, sending them slithering between my feet, and though I could detect the roil of the river as it snaked through the town, the water itself remained elusive, as if it did not want to be found.
The building sprawled, and something about its dark windows reminded me of a Charles Burchfield painting … intimidating, almost sinister. Ironic, considering it had once been owned by the church. I stared at the house, and the house stared back.
Something flashed just out of my line of vision. Curtains had parted behind me. The neighbours were curious too. Had they seen something? Maybe they’d been subjected to the buzzkill of construction for so long that they’d paid no mind to suspicious activity. A building permit was taped to a window, and the contents of a dumpster in the parsonage’s drive had all the markings of an overhaul. A turquoise toilet balanced on rotting two-by-fours, and a hill of peach carpeting displayed a bewildering number of stains.
A valuable painting must be at stake … must be. One casement window provided me with glimpses of a much leaner Lilith, pacing as she chewed at a thumbnail, something she only did in public when distraught. She’d drawn blood at her father’s funeral, had worn bandages for weeks, and she’d later developed an equally bad habit of gnawing at pens.
We’d stayed fair-weather friends, as we had little in common except a love for the arts, but we trusted each other, and if your old Delta Phi sister—who happens to be the mayor of a small town—pleads for your help, you pack two duffle bags, fill up your tank, and drive ’til you drop. I rolled my neck, attempting to loosen a stubborn kink. Thunder grumbled in the distance, and the wind pawed at the hem of my duffle coat, prickling my thighs. I burrowed my hands deeper into my pockets, wishing I’d packed gloves.
The two-plus story building lorded over the street’s humbler bungalows. Its intricate gingerbread trim reminded me of the wares of a lacemaking shop I’d visited during my short stint in Belgium. Slight colour variances showed where loose or crumbling red bricks had been replaced, but only the pricey, black metal shingles strayed from historical accuracy. The blue-grey woodwork had been left half-painted, and the abandoned paint trays littering the broad porch clattered with each strong gust. Another officer flung open the maroon front door. He stepped outside and called out to me, “Annora Garde?”
I jaunted across the road, glad I’d worn my combat boots. Two police personnel exited the building and headed toward the van. I waited until they drove off, then plotted my way down the short, potholed driveway. Muddied timber formed a sort of wobbly boardwalk, offering a makeshift passage over the muck of the yard. Everywhere, there were piles of topsoil and landscaping material.
The officer met me on the porch, but his half-smile seemed forced. Something about his square jaw, brawniness, and stance reminded me of a boxer, and his intense, grey gaze was downright disconcerting.
Without warning, Lilith flew out the door, greeting me with one of her fierce hugs. “I’m so glad you came.” The bags under her eyes were dark. “This is Inspector Scott MacGowan—”
“—but he goes by Mac,” the constable by the fence yelled.
“Shut it, Johnston!” The inspector’s smile relaxed. “Thing is, most do call me Mac.” His warm hand shook my icy one as he casually dropped a bomb. “Thank you for coming. I’m told you can shed some light on this case.”
“I’m lost. What case?”
Thick auburn brows rose and knitted together. Mac said to Lilith, “You didn’t tell her?” I could almost see him counting to ten. He turned toward me. “Ms. Garde, I hope we haven’t wasted your time.”
Lilith nudged an ash-blond wave behind her ear. “Really, it’s not as bad as all that.” Thunder sounded again, and she flinched. “Let’s head inside.”
I nodded and tried to keep my expression mild. We stepped into a vestibule that reeked of new paint and tile adhesive. I started to remove my boots.
“Best to leave those on, Nory. But may I take your coat?”
Mac’s sharp sideways glance made me nervous. I handed her my jacket, which she hung on an antique hall tree. We remained in the cramped space, and my suspicions grew.
“Many wanted this building to be demolished,” she said. “The church sold it decades ago. It became a rooming house, then a tavern. It was boarded up for years. We had our work cut out for us—rot, pests, bongs.” She kept us at the entrance, bottlenecking the doorway. “But soon it will be a multipurpose art museum—offer exhibits, residencies, weddings, and—”
“Lil, I’m losing my patience.”
Finally, she moved. I veered past her, rounded a corner, and froze. So, this is why she’d been stonewalling me. Plastic sealed off the room at the end of the short hall. Taped to the clear barrier, a large sign warned, “‘Danger: Mould Spore Hazard.”
“There’s some water damage, and the double parlour is infested—nasty toxic stuff. A remediation team came out, but—you’ll see, after we put on these suits and masks.”
A formal arc hway divided one long, empty shell of a room. The right parlour wasn’t the problem. I peered through the left parlour’s transparent shield. Thick, dark mould had swallowed most of the back wall. I bit my tongue, inwardly fuming. I’d worked with fungus before, of course. It didn’t daunt me, wouldn’t affect my decision. Still, a head’s-up would have been nice.
As we slipped into the hazmat coveralls, Lilith continued to sell me on the commission. “The town’s centennial is next month. The museum’s grand opening will be the highlight of the celebration. But we came across something … hidden.” She frowned as she unzipped the plastic closure. “Now, Mac and I are at odds about how to proceed with this find.”
The “find” was a three-and-a-half-by-four-and-a-half-foot mural located above the fireplace on the back wall, the one with the extreme infestation. From the one-inch blocks that cornered the painting, it seemed the imposing over-mantle—removed from its place above the hearth—had concealed the mural. The elaborate piece had not been in direct contact with the old wall, creating a thin gap between the back of the mirror and the painting. The cushion of space had failed to protect the mural. Instead, it had formed a microclimate, a breeding ground for destructive white blooms. And black and green blooms too. Possibly Aspergillus. Fungus all but obscured sectors of the art.
Mac and Lilith stopped speaking. They stepped back, allowing me to assess the damage, to take in the scope of the work.
I eased up to the fireplace and tipped my head back. Layers of grungy mould veiled a young girl. She wore a drab summer dress … a tainted yellow, perhaps. Behind her, a jaundiced river swelled, burdening unnaturally pallid banks. From March until June, I’d been told, the town held its breath, waited out flood warnings and hoped the water wouldn’t reach low-lying homes. The setting suggested a pastoral theme, probably whimsical, but I could just make out the church steeple in the background—its presence too Sunday-best for a portrait of a young child playing by a riverbank. Impossible to tell if it was a day or night scene. Maybe twilight? What a jewel this would be, once cleaned.
Even in its neglected state, from what I could see of it, the artwork was astounding. The artist could very well be renowned for her or his body of work. Or not. The bottom right corner held the hidden answer. Fungus had made the signature indecipherable, but it was there.
I frowned at the wall. “Lath and plaster?”
“What! Yes, plaster,” Mac repeated. “The mural stays where it is!”
“First, I need to do a condition report!” The respirators muffled our voices, so we needed to shout to be heard. “Before I touch a thing, I’ll record the state of deterioration—in this case, mostly mould damage. I’m not seeing any flaking or aging cracks, but I may need to stabilize it. I’ll run it through cleaning tests, experiment with different solutions. Next, I would carefully—inch by inch—clean off all the accumulated fungi and ensure it won’t resurface. When we pass that point, we can begin to address repairs, true restoration, and conservation.” I still felt somewhat bamboozled, but the prospect of restoring beauty to the piece thrilled me. I could hardly wait to return it to its original splendour.
“How long will it take?” Lilith bellowed.
“Three weeks?”
“Three? Not any quicker?”
“Hard to say.” I grew tired of enunciating each word. “It all depends on the extent of the damage. It’s helpful this area is already contained. So, your crew should be able to finish the other rooms while I breathe life back into this little girl.”
Lilith and Mac shared a startled look. I didn’t like the look one bit.
“I’ve issued a stop-work order.” Mac stepped closer to me until our masks almost touched. “We need your help. The girl in that mural has waited over sixty years for someone to ID her killer. There’s a slim chance he may still be alive.”
“Someone killed her?” My stomach churned. “You’re telling me her killer is the artist? But—but it’s signed!”
Lilith’s shoulder brushed mine. “Her name was Rosemary.”
Mac handed me a photo sealed in a bag. Plastic shielded a lovely, oval face, heartbreakingly young. Her innocent smile dazzled. She seemed so alive. The room began to spin, and four hands steadied me.
“How many stops did you make? When did you last eat?” Lilith went into mother mode.
“You can both let go of me now. I’m fine. But I’d like to revive myself.” And get my bearings. “Is there a washroom I can use?”
“Yes.” She paused. “Unfortunately, the downstairs powder rooms are still a work in progress. The one upstairs hasn’t been touched yet. It has everything, but it’s scuzzy.” Her forehead wrinkled. “This shouting is ridiculous! Let’s finish this discussion elsewhere.”
Mac said, “Good idea. She’s travelled a long way.”
“Nine hundred kilometres?” I took pity on the man. “Pftt. She’s driven from Toronto to Montevideo.”
“Bet there’s a story there.”
We left the contained area, took off what we had put on and regrouped in the second parlour. Despite all the Canadian Association for Conservation conventions I’d attended, I couldn’t recall a single presentation on “Challenging Law Enforcement” or “Hints on How to Restore Incriminating Evidence.” Note to self: Should a friend say a new museum requires my expertise, ask for details.
Mac’s expression turned serious. “We just need the signature. It’s a confession, right? If it’s there, we’re done.”
“As I said, first I complete the report.”
“We’re talking about an area smaller than a gift tag.”
“So, you or other officers didn’t take notes or document the evidence?”
“Yeah, sure, we have protocols that must be followed. To the letter.” He sighed. “I get what you’re saying. And obviously, conservation has its restrictions and procedures too. I’m asking you to break some rules. We’re one step away from naming a killer.”
“Isn’t this a cold case? Would another hour or two make that much of a difference?”
He shot me a harsh look. “What if this was your hometown? What if Rosemary were your great-aunt or a relative of a good friend? If this was personal, would you feel the same way? Would you tell family to wait another two hours?”
I turned away, struggling to keep my composure. He had no idea what he’d just said to me, but Lilith did. Her eyes shimmered.
“Okay,” I huffed. “What I’m about to do goes against a code of ethics. Documentation safeguards cultural property. It’s essential that I examine the art and record my findings. So, I’ll take a few snapshots, then I’ll clean the signature, but I’ll need access to the mural so I can complete a report.”
“Cultural property? This? We’ll have to disagree on that point.”
“They canonized Saint Catherine of Bologna in 1712. Victorian Richard Dadd was committed to Bedlam for stabbing his own father. They’ve both had their paintings restored and preserved by experts in my field.” I lifted my chin. “We don’t discriminate. I’ve sworn to treat all art with equal care, just as you’ve sworn to preserve the peace, even for those found guilty of violent crimes.”
He barked a laugh. “Alright, alright. You argue like a crown attorney.”
Lilith slowly exhaled.
“I’d like to wash up. I wouldn’t normally ask, but could one of you get my kits—the aluminum briefcases—from my car, please?”
“Sure thing.” Mac took my keys and walked away.
His absence did an odd thing to the atmosphere; the energy in the building drastically changed, curdled like milk, deepening the gloom.
CHAPTER
2
I WAS NOT AT all happy with Lilith. In fact, I was peeved, but I kept my thoughts to myself. She may have realized what this commission would do to me, shown her concern, but she hadn’t backed me up during the whole report debate.
She checked her phone. “Darn. I have a meeting. The downtown business association etcetera, etcetera. Are you okay?” She touched my arm. “Are we okay?”
Had she been intentionally elusive or deliberately misleading? “You’re forgiven.”
