There was a flicker in Kathi’s eyes. “Wasn’t it with her things in her tent?”
“No. It was missing.”
She shrugged.
Angie held the woman’s gaze. “Were you envious of Jasmine?”
Kathi blinked at the blindside. Her faced reddened. “I’ll tell you what, when your husband runs off and fucks every young pussy that hits his radar and leaves you with four kids and no means of an income, you might also haveissueswith nubile young sluts, okay? Do you think I’d still be slaving away in this damn bakery at my age if he hadn’t left me in a shithole of debt? Hope that guide’s wife gave him hell—she came into the pub, you know? She saw him cozying up to that ... that woman in a booth.”
“I saw that on Rachel’s footage, yes. Do you know whether Garrison’s wife confronted him about it or spoke to Jaz about it at any point?”
“I have no idea. I think his wife visited one of our campsites one evening. Brought food or something. I think it was the first or second camp. Can’t recall. If she did confront Jaz, I wasn’t there, because that I would have remembered.”
“And your memory of that last night, the hours before Jaz died?”
“All a blur. A nice alcoholic blur. Was my escape from the kids and my fucked-up life for a few blissful days until she went and drowned and ruined it all.”
The bakery door opened, and two women entered.
“If you don’t mind, I need to get back.” Kathi turned and addressed her customers.
“Thanks,” Angie muttered more to herself than Kathi. She exited the cupcake shop and walked to her car, the coastal wind tearing at her hair. She felt like having a drink and finding some nice numb bliss herself just to get the bad taste of that woman out of her mouth. She opened her vehicle door, thinking she’d have been tempted to push Kathi Daly over Plunge Falls had she been on the trip. Angie hoped Rachel’s daughter, Eden, would be more cooperative when she met with her in Nanaimo, a small city just north of Ladysmith. But Angie had doubts given that Rachel was calling around and giving everyone a heads-up.
As she drove to Nanaimo, rain began to spit against her windshield again, and a dark seed of thought unfurled inside her—she wouldn’t put it past bitter and jealous Kathi Daly to have pushed a “nubile slut” into the river.
CHAPTER 25
Dr.Eden Hart’s waiting room was empty when Angie entered. Pale-gray walls and large windows filled the interior with natural light despite the dark, moody weather outside. Freshly cut flowers in a vase on a coffee table provided additional cheer. Magazines were lined in neat rows atop the glass surface of the coffee table.
A receptionist behind a counter at the far end of the room peered over the rims of her glasses.
“I have an appointment with Dr.Hart,” Angie said as she approached the counter. “Name’s Angie Pallorino.”
“The doctor is running a bit late. Please take a seat. Coffee is in the urn in the corner over there. Mugs are next to it.” She smiled. “The cookies are pecan and white chocolate today.”
Angie sat, flicked briefly through a magazine, then turned her attention to the black-and-white prints on the walls. Some were historic photos, others ink sketches and block prints. With surprise Angie realized they all depicted women angling. Intrigued, she came to her feet and studied the first photo. It was signed by Lorian Hemingway. Angie presumed the woman standing proudly beside a swordfish that hung from a scale on a dock in some tropical locale must be one of Ernest Hemingway’s twelve grandchildren. Angie moved over to the next image. A block print of a nun in full habit casting a fishing line into the water. A quote beneath the print read:
Si tibi deficiant medici, medici tibi fiant. Hec tria, mens leta, labor, et moderata dieta.
“If you fall short of doctors, physicians will be these three—the happy mind, work, and moderate diet,” said a female voice behind her.
Startled, Angie swung around.
A brunette of her own height and age stood right behind her—Angie hadn’t even heard her approach. She nodded toward the print. “Dame Juliana Berners, a prioress and noblewoman credited with writing the first fly-fishing essay. Ironic really, considering how long men have dominated the sport ever since.” She extended her hand. “Eden Hart.”
“Angie Pallorino.” Angie took Dr.Hart’s hand. It was fine boned, her skin soft, nails impeccably manicured. But her grip was solid. Her gaze was equally firm.
“It was in your mother’s VHS footage from the Hook and Gaffe pub,” Angie said. “The mention of the nun.”
Eden smiled. “You’ve done research.”
Angie laughed, recalling the clip of Trish explaining to Eden why she’d thank her mom for introducing her to fishing. “So your mother made an angler out of you yet?” she said.
Eden’s smile did not falter, but something shifted ever so slightly in her laser-sharp gaze. Angie felt a small frisson. There was something enigmatic, forceful about this woman. Something in her smile that while warm and engaging did not seem reflected in her eyes. Her mother’s daughter.
“It’s really good to meet you,” Eden said. “Although I do feel like I know you already, from your story in the news. I’m looking forward to reading Dr.Reinhold Grablowski’s upcoming book.”
Angie winced. “It’s kind of the last thing I’m looking forward to anyone reading. He’s written it without my consent.”
