The Maid's Diary(34)

“I’m sorry, Mal.”

The emotion that surges into her eyes at Benoit’s words surprises her. Mal hasn’t really opened up to anyone about her husband’s young-onset dementia. Benoit knows of Peter’s diagnosis, though. Mal is close to her working partner. It happens with people you trust with your life. Benoit has been candid with her, too, about his struggles in being a young, first-time dad. About the sleepless nights with a newborn. He’s told her bits about his horrific childhood in the Congo, when he was kidnapped by rebels at age seven and forced to kill people from his own village as a drugged-up child soldier. If not for a Ghanian-Canadian NGO worker, Benoit might never have been extricated from his situation. The worker brought young Benoit to Quebec for treatment. Without this intervention and a subsequent adoption, Benoit’s life probably would have ended violently a long time ago. How he’s managed to survive, Mal will never know. That kind of trauma doesn’t leave. She suspects a part of Benoit Salumu’s psyche still inhabits that dark place of childhood nightmares and always will. Being a cop, fighting for justice now—he says it’s what keeps him moving forward. And there is Sadie, his wife, and now their new baby. Sadie is working to complete her law degree long distance while caring for a new baby. Mal is in awe of both of them.

When they finally enter the Point Grey neighborhood and head down Fourth Street, Benoit says in an exaggerated voice, “Oh, look, Detective, a parking space right across the street from Bea’s Blooms florist. Just like TV.” He chuckles darkly and pulls into the space. Mal smiles in spite of herself.

The bumblebee logo on the florist door is a match to the logo embossed on the card found at the Glass House. Mal and Benoit enter the store. It’s humid inside. Warm. It smells like a greenhouse. Ferns hang in pots strung from the beams across the ceiling. A wall of fridges houses a variety of freshly cut blooms in a rainbow of colors. The background music is soft. Classical piano. Peaceful.

Mal whispers to Benoit, “I could live in a place like this.”

An arrestingly beautiful woman in her late thirties approaches them. Her brown skin is smooth and flawless. Long locs woven through with a fine silver thread are pulled into a ponytail that hangs down her back. Both her arms are full with silver bracelets. No makeup. She moves like a ballet dancer, with a powerful and fluid grace. The kind of woman Mal can never be. The kind of woman who makes Mal feel like an oversize, blundering Labrador retriever.

They both show her their IDs, and Mal asks if she is the manager.

“I’m the owner, Bea Jemison. What’s this about?” The woman’s eyes flick from Mal to Benoit. Mal sees the flare of interest as Bea’s gaze settles on Benoit. Mal is a veteran interrogator, a shrewd student of human tells. And while the interest she detects in Bea Jemison might be subtle, it’s definitely there, so Mal holds back and allows Benoit to take the lead. They’ll get more that way.

“Ms. Jemison,” Benoit says. “We’re hoping you can assist us with a missing person case.”

Good call, thinks Mal. Everyone wants to help find the missing. Mention violence or murder and the leery kicks in.

Benoit shows Bea Jemison a photograph on his phone of the card found in the wilting bouquet.

Jemison leans in to take a closer look.

“This card and bouquet were found outside a home on the North Shore. Can you tell us who bought this arrangement? We’re presuming it did come from here?”

“Yes, that’s ours.” She points at the image. “The dendrobium orchids with the baby’s breath, Japanese anemone, spider mums, white calla lilies—I put it together myself yesterday. What happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to piece together.”

“Is she . . . okay? Is the person who bought this the one who’s missing?” There’s concern in her eyes. “She’s pregnant—you do know that she’s pregnant?”

A frisson of energy shoots up Mal’s spine.

“Is her name Daisy?” Benoit asks.

“I—we can’t give out personal information.”

“We’ll return with a warrant tomorrow, Ms. Jemison,” he says, “but we’ll lose valuable time. This woman’s life and her baby’s life could be in danger.”

“Oh God, oh—yes, I—her name is Daisy. She comes in often. Ever since she moved into the area in about July, I think.”

“Does Daisy have a last name, address, a contact number?”

Jemison regards Benoit, making her own business risk assessment. “Sure, yes. Come this way, to the computer.”

She looks it up in her system. “Her name is Daisy Rittenberg. Rose Cottage, number 4357 West Third. It’s basically a few blocks away from here toward the water.” She gives the cell phone number.

Mal and Benoit thank the florist, and as they exit the store, Mal says, “The Pi Bistro is over there, kitty-corner across the street. Want to check it out before we go to West Third?”

“Might as well—we’re here.”

They stride down the dark sidewalk. Tires crackle on the wet streets, and rain droplets glisten on the passing cars. As they walk, Mal punches in the mobile number Jemison gave them.

The call flips to voice mail. “Hi, this is Daisy. Leave a message.”

She kills the call.

“No answer,” she tells Benoit. She phones Lula at the station.