Page 67 of The Burnt
They made their way to the room, which was decorated in basic boring. It had a plaid green rug on a black and white tiled floor, panel-board walls and a tourist poster of Whistler Mountain over the bed.
“Ah. I see you spared no expense and reserved us the ‘mountain rustic’ suite,” Charlie said.
“This trip’s on my dime,” Declan replied. “I don’t have a rich client like you.”
He looked at Charlie and gave him his best leer, then reached into his duffle bag, pulled out a pair of handcuffs and threw Charlie on the bed. “What do you say we test out the mattress?”
“Shouldn’t we be getting over to Mrs Keough’s before it gets too late?” Charlie asked.
“It’s only two in the afternoon and she’s not expecting us.”
Charlie smiled. “I suppose, all work and no play…”
Declan started to take off Charlie’s clothes. “Let me show you a trick an old friend of mine, Martin, taught me. I think you’re gonna like it.”
* * * *
Declan rolled over and looked at the clock. It was three p.m.
Charlie started to stir. “I’m starving.”
Declan burst out laughing. “You’re always starving.”
“How can younotbe hungry after a workout like that?” Charlie asked.
“We ate in Edson, and that was only a few hours ago. Look, we passed a coffee shop down the street. If I get you a coffee and a donut, can you hold off ’til dinner?”
Charlie pouted. “I guess.”
“Good, but first I want to check in with Mrs Keough before it gets too late.”
After a quick shower, they drove the short distance to the Geikie Street address and pulled up in front of the brown clapboard house.
“I’ll take the lead,” Declan said as they made their way past a grey Impala that was tethered to the house by the telltale electrical cord of a block heater—an Alberta car owner’s best friend in the winter.
Declan entered the enclosed porch then rapped the knocker on the front door.
There was no response. Declan knocked again.
He turned and shrugged at Charlie. “We’ll wait back in the van and see if anyone comes home.”
Just then the deadbolt was drawn back. A spry-looking older woman, barely reaching Declan’s shoulders in height, opened the door. She was nicely dressed, like she was preparing to go out.
“Yes. May I help you gentlemen?” she asked.
“Mrs Florence Keough?”
“Yes.” She hesitated. “Look, if this is about the fellow who bumped into my car in the shopping plaza yesterday, he was totally at fault and he admitted it on the spot. And it was just a little ding and I don’t plan on pursuing it any further.”
“Actually, it has nothing to do with that, but it does have to do with your car.”
“Oh?”
“My name’s Declan Hunt and this is my partner Charlie Watts. I spoke to you on the phone yesterday. As I said, we’re looking into a case involving a murder in Calgary and we wanted to talk to you in person. Do you have a few minutes?”
“My goodness, this must be serious if you came all the way up here.”
“Do you mind if we come in?”
