Chapter Six
CHAPTER SIX
Gunnar’s story mostly matches Anders’s. He left the Roc as soon as Lynn joined the group, and I understand that. He didn’t avoid her because she’d once hit on him. He’d made it clear to all that he was open to that, and he wouldn’t want any hard feelings if he turned down an interested party. But Lynn hadn’t taken no for an answer. While Gunnar handled it on his own, he was understandably wary around her, as if even friendly attention might be misinterpreted as a sign that he’d changed his mind.
Last night, though, despite what Anders thought, Gunnar hadn’t left right away. He’d been heading to the door, but then he’d seen Marlon and Kenny coming in. Gunnar, Marlon, and Kenny had chatted for a few minutes, and then a table of people tried to call them over, and Marlon and Kenny accepted while Gunnar went home for the night.
As promised, Dalton shows up mid-interview with my decaf coffee and cookies. Technically, my baby doc says one cup of regular coffee a day is fine, but however much I miss a solid hit of caffeine, it’s not a chance I’m comfortable taking.
I can grumble about Dalton cutting the doctor’s “on my feet” time in half, but today is the first time I’ve gone over it since the premature-delivery scare. No matter how much my doctor insists that if something does go wrong, it’ll be Mother Nature’s decision, I’d still feel as if it could have been something I did. Was a sip of champagne at New Year’s worth it? A daily cup of coffee? Regularly standing for an hour at a time? No. So I have my one decaf coffee a day, plus one hot chocolate, and after that, it’s herbal tea and water. And I get off my feet after thirty minutes.
Dalton brings extra cookies, and a coffee for himself, while pointing Gunnar in the direction of the fire and kettle and French press. Even in more laid-back Haven’s Rock, Dalton has a rep to maintain. He’s the hard-ass sheriff, Anders is the nice guy, and I get to swing between good cop and bad cop, depending on the situation.
Dalton brought extra cookies because he knows Gunnar is wary of him, and he also knows why. I told him Gunnar’s backstory, having deemed it important information. But he can’t let on he knows, because Gunnar would hate that. So Dalton walks a line here, bringing enough cookies for all but making Gunnar brew his own coffee.
When the interview’s done, Gunnar takes his leave. He may also snatch the last cookie, and Dalton may also grumble about that, but once Gunnar’s gone, Dalton only shakes his head.
“That help any?” he says.
“The interview or the cookies?”
“The interview.”
“It does. He didn’t leave as soon as Anders thought, but he did leave.”
“Before we’re presuming Kendra’s drink was dosed.”
I nod. “Speaking of dosing, I need to stop by the clinic and see whether April’s tox screen—”
“I’ll bring her to you.”
I open my mouth. Shut it.
Dalton crouches in front of me, his hands on my knees. “Remember a few years ago, when I tore a ligament slipping on the mountainside? April wanted me off that leg for two weeks, and I was a bear. Also unbearable. Snapping and snarling at everyone who dared remind me to rest. Including you.”
“It was frustrating for you. We were preparing for winter, and there was a lot to be done.”
He shakes his head. “No excuse. I fell on that path. You didn’t push me. But I felt like I was being a lazy bastard, and I vented my frustration on you.” He squeezes my knees. “You’re dealing with this much better than I did, and I know that’s not because you aren’t just as frustrated. Especially now with this case.”
I sigh. “I’m taking it out on you.”
“No, you’re taking it out on yourself. You’re torn between feeling like you’re shirking your duties and knowing, if anything goes wrong after you overdid it, you’ll blame yourself, even if that had nothing to do with it.”
“It’s just…” I shift on my seat. “Lousy timing. I want to be off my feet. In bed if possible. Whatever it takes to protect…” I put my hands to my belly.
“You are already doing everything—over and above. Like Dr. Kapoor said, staying off your feet is just extra. But you need to let others help you, as hard as that is. It’s no imposition for April to come here and talk to you. Or, on second thought, to come to the house. I’ve done what I needed to do, and Will can handle the rest. Consider me your personal gofer. Anything you need, including rounding up witnesses, I will do.” His lips quirk. “After all, this baby is half my fault.”
I push aside the urge to negotiate, to say that I’ll stay here, that I don’t want to feel like a queen holding court. But that’s exactly what he means. Don’t make him negotiate. Don’t make him my captor, taking away my freedom. That’s especially loaded for a man dealing with his wife.
“Can we go for a walk later?” I ask. “In the woods? While it’s warm?”
When he hesitates, I sigh and say, “I’ll take the sled.”
He smiles and leans in to kiss me. “Then we can go as far as we want. Get out of town for a while. Discuss the case if you insist. Or just be glad Kendra wasn’t hurt, know that we’re locking down as best we can, and relax.”
“We probably should discuss the case.”
He exhales a long, dramatic sigh. “Of course.”
“But I’ll stay in the sled.”
“And won’t complain about it?”
“Asking a lot, aren’t you?” I look up at him and shake my head. “Fine. I’ll stay in the sled and not complain about it.”
I’m settled in at home. Max has returned Storm, who’s stretched out at my feet, forgoing her bed for the cooler hardwood floor. She’s panting softly, which means the boys must have been running around with her.
I can say she’s just tired because she’s such a big dog. That’s part of it. She’s good at endurance, thanks to hikes that can last all day, but running around takes its toll, and it’s doing so more and more as she ages. She’s only four. For another breed, that’d be young adulthood. For a Newfoundland, it’s middle age.
I try not to think of that. Middle age isn’t old… says the person approaching the middle of the average adult life span. Storm is healthy and happy. I just have to keep an eye on her exertion levels. Both of us need the occasional reminder that we aren’t pups anymore.
“I have the results of the toxicology screening,” April says, by way of greeting as she enters our chalet. “And I am not satisfied with them.”
“They misbehaved?” I say.
She takes off her boots, marches in, and stands by the fireplace.
“Can you sit, please, April? I know you’re upset, but if you stand, then having me sit feels awkward.”
She lowers herself to a chair. “Eric wanted you to know he is speaking to Kendra about your list of names from the Roc and obtaining her own recollections. He will be here shortly. As for the toxicology screening, I am displeased by the results. They are unsatisfactory, and the blame lies with the tests. We need ones specific to this purpose.”
“Then we’ll get those. Which doesn’t help right now. I wasn’t properly prepared for this. I haven’t been reminding residents of safety precautions at the bar, and I didn’t think to get specific tests for drugs used in sexual assault.”
“ We didn’t do these things, Casey. Not you specifically. I did not obtain the correct tests. Isabel was not cautious enough at the bar. We all forgot to remind residents—and staff—of the dangers.”
I stretch out my legs on the recliner. “I’m just glad Kendra wasn’t hurt. This was our wake-up call to fix things. We’ll give the warnings, and we’ll lock down opportunities. We also need those coasters that test for dosed drinks.”
I pull over a pillow from the chair beside me and use it under my feet. “Of course, all that presumes Kendra was dosed, which the tests didn’t prove.”
“I never said that.”
I arch my brows.
April shakes her head, as if I’m suffering from a terminal case of baby brain. “I said they were unsatisfactory. I have two types of screening—blood and urine. The urine test showed alcohol, which we know. Also trace amounts of THC, but that is as much Kendra’s business as the alcohol.”
Kendra did ask for edibles the last time we went south. We already get medical marijuana for Yolanda’s tremors. Recreational marijuana is legal in Canada, but we haven’t decided whether to stock it. While we got some for Kendra, that wouldn’t explain her blacking out, especially since trace amounts suggest it’d been days since she took any.
“And the blood test?” I ask.
“It showed evidence of a benzodiazepine.”
“That makes sense. Benzos are one of the most common types of drug used in sexual assault.”
“Yes, but this is an advanced test, from émilie’s company. It can narrow that down further and the specific drug it detected is temazepam.”
I frown. “I’m not familiar with that. Mostly, I know the drugs by their common names. Rohypnol, GHB, and generic benzos. But temazepam is a benzo, and if it was in Kendra’s bloodstream, that’s the smoking gun. So what’s the problem?”
“There is no one in this town taking temazepam, which means émilie’s test is faulty. All prescriptions come through me. No one is permitted to bring their own. Unless your entry searches have become lax…”
“They haven’t. We’ve found people bringing in recreational drugs, and they’re confiscated.” I reach for the table and take my papers. “Hold on. Someone gave me a list of drugs used in sexual assault, from work they’d done down south. It’s very thorough.”
I hand Lynn’s list to my sister.
“Very thorough indeed,” she murmurs. “Impressive. And here is temazepam.”
“So that tracks.”
“Yes, but again, no one here has it.” She points to the page. “It’s a strong sleep aid, used to treat severe insomnia. We have people on various benzodiazepines, but even if the test incorrectly identified the subtype, no one is taking benzodiazepines in a high enough dose to drug anyone’s drink without them detecting the taste.”
“So we have no residents with severe insomnia? None of the staff?”
“Even staff are required to register drugs with me, and I have checked my list. We only have one person with severe insomnia, but he is not…” She trails off.
I lean forward. “Is he taking something similar?”
“I presume he is taking something for his insomnia, but I play no role in that part of his care. I am not the one who prescribes his medications.”
I frown. “Someone else is prescribing…?” The answer hits. There’s one other person in this town qualified to write prescriptions. But his only patient right now is Max’s older brother, Carson, and Mathias wouldn’t be prescribing a strong benzo to a thirteen-year-old boy.
Yet that doesn’t mean he couldn’t write them for himself and fill them on his trips out of Haven’s Rock. And, while they should be registered with April, this is the one person she wouldn’t insist do that. No one would insist he do that.
“Mathias,” I say.
“Yes but…” She clears her throat. “The prescription would not be for him.”
I’m about to ask who else Mathias would prescribe for. Then I realize the answer.
“Sebastian.”
I need to handle this on my own. That’s not me being territorial or obstinate. It’s the fact that it involves Mathias.
We have three mental-health professionals on staff. Kendra is a social worker, and Isabel is a psychologist. But we also have a psychiatrist—a medical doctor specializing in mental health. That would be Mathias.
Kendra and Isabel both have other jobs, and so does he. Mathias is our town butcher, and one could argue he’s not the sort of person you want having access to large knives, but again, no one refuses Mathias. Dalton grumbles that he’s not even sure how Mathias ended up following us to Haven’s Rock. Of course he knows the reason—no one dared tell Mathias no.
Okay, if we really didn’t want him here, we could have kept him out. But despite Mathias’s… quirks, he’s an excellent butcher. And a decent psychiatrist.
As Dalton and I approach the butcher shop, Storm perks up, looking for Raoul.
“I think he’s with Jacob,” I say, patting her head. Raoul has proven a fine hunting dog, and there are a very small number of people Mathias allows him to go out with, Jacob being one of them.
Dalton and I find Mathias inside the shop making sausage, which is never an auspicious moment to confront a man rumored to have done terrible things to his victims. Yes, his “victims” were killers, but still…
“Casey,” he says, and then continues in French, which of course excludes Dalton from the conversation, but that’s nothing personal. Mathias likes me because I speak fluent French, and so that is what he uses with me. Otherwise, why talk to me at all?
“You look tired,” he says. “You are not resting enough.”
I ignore that. “This is a professional courtesy call.”
His brows shoot up. “That sounds ominous.”
I take a seat on a wooden crate as Dalton stands beside me. “Have you heard what happened to Kendra?”
“Of course. Sebastian told me. Ah. She is in need of my professional services.” He lays down his cleaver, and I may exhale a little at that. “I would strongly suggest Isabel is better suited, but I will see Kendra if she prefers. I like her. She brings the best game. Always perfectly shot and field dressed. You could take notes, Casey. You are the worst for birds. Your husband here is adequate, but Kendra is better.”
“It’s not about therapy. It’s about what was used to drug her. Temazepam.”
There’s only a split-second hesitation before he makes the connection and his lips press together. “ Non. ”
“I take it you’re prescribing temazepam for Sebastian’s insomnia?”
“Sebastian’s psychiatric care is not your—”
“Yes,” says a voice from the back room. As Sebastian steps through, I try not to wince. I hadn’t thought to make sure he wasn’t around. Sebastian’s French was decent when he arrived in Rockton, but he quickly realized that if he wanted Mathias’s full attention, he needed to be fluent.
“I take temazepam,” he says. “Restoril, to be exact. That’s what was used to dose Kendra?”
“According to what test?” Mathias says. “And who interpreted the results? To say it is a benzodiazepine is one thing, but to know which one?” He shakes his head. “I am sure that trick works on others, but I know drugs and their tests, Casey.”
“Since the person filling our medical supplies owns a drug company, we get only the best—and most cutting-edge. April said temazepam.”
“No one’s accusing me, Mathias,” Sebastian says. “Obviously, if it was temazepam, and I’m the only person taking it, then Casey needs to investigate. I know I didn’t drug Kendra, and I trust Casey to verify that.” He turns to us. “I’m guessing you’ll need to see where I keep the pills?”
“If you can just tell us, we’ll conduct the search.” I raise a hand to ward off Mathias’s protest. “If either of you is there, someone can say you hid the pills to pretend they’d been stolen.”
Sebastian nods. “Sure. I can tell you where I keep them. I can also tell you how many there should be. I don’t take them often—they’re really strong stuff. But I do get severe insomnia, which can mess with my brain and that’s never safe with me.”
“You do not need to explain,” Mathias says. “I prescribed what you needed. The rest is confidential.”
Sebastian looks at us. “Ignore him. Anything you need, just ask.”