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.
“Corporal Griffith.” Lula’s tone is crisp.
“Hey, Lu, I need anything and everything you can find on a Daisy Rittenberg of Rose Cottage, 4357 on West Third. Criminal record check, employment history, whatever you can dig up. We’re headed to that address now.”
“Is this the ‘Daisy’ in question?”
“Looks that way.”
“Gotcha.”
Mal pockets her phone as Benoit pushes open the doors to the Pi Bistro. A bell jingles overhead as they enter. It’s warm and cozy inside, the air rich with the scents of freshly baked breads. Mal’s hunger hits hard even though she wolfed down a wedge of solidifying pizza before leaving the briefing room.
“Looks like your regular wealthy vegan-yoga crowd,” Benoit says quietly as they make their way through the rustic tables. At the counter they ask for the manager. A guy in his mid-to-late thirties exits from the open-plan bakery area. He’s tanned despite the season, lean, muscled. His sandy hair is sun bleached. Beneath his baker’s apron he wears a faded long-sleeve T-shirt printed with an image of a surfboard and the name of a small coastal town in Mexico.
“Ty Binty,” he says as he wipes flour off his hands with a cloth. He stuffs the cloth into the front pocket of his apron. “What can I do for you?”
Mal shows her badge and explains they’re investigating a missing person case and are hoping to learn the identity of someone who bought a berry pie here yesterday.
He crooks up his brows. “One of my pies was involved in a crime?”
Mal and Benoit say nothing.
“You’re serious? One of my blueberry-blackberry pies is connected to a police incident? What happened?”
“What makes you think it was a blueberry-blackberry?” Mal asks, thinking of the dark-purple ooze on the concrete outside the front door of the Glass House.
“It’s the only berry pie we’re making at the moment. They’re a special preorder.”
“Did a pregnant woman purchase one yesterday?” Mal asks. “Most likely in the late afternoon?”
“You mean Daisy? What happened? Is she okay?” His worry looks genuine.
Mal says, “You also seem pretty certain it was Daisy.”
“Look, it was Halloween yesterday. It’s October. We’re stocked to the hilt with pumpkin pie everything. Daisy called ahead to specifically order our blackberry and blueberry mix. And those are special order because they’re made with wild berries and we don’t always have supply.”
“So you know Daisy?” Benoit asks.
“For sure, yeah. Daisy Rittenberg. She comes in at least once a week, usually for a late lunch or afternoon tea, and most often with her friend, Vanessa, who’s also pregnant. Sometimes they’re joined by other pregnant moms from the yoga class that’s held in the park across the street. In good weather the class is held outdoors on the grass, under the trees,” he explains. “When it rains, they go to the studio around the block. Daisy came in late yesterday afternoon to pick up her order. Maybe around five thirty p.m. or so?” He wavers. “Can you tell me if she’s okay?”
“We’re trying to make contact with her.”
“She’s married to Jon Rittenberg.”
“You say his name like we should recognize it,” Mal says.
“Sorry, I guess not everyone is a winter sports enthusiast. Jon is a Canadian Olympian—a downhill skier. He brought home two gold medals from the Winter Olympics at Salt Lake City in ’02. Jon—they called him BergBomber—grew up on the North Shore Mountains. He’s like a local hero—or was. He attended a secondary school near mine, and us tykes who were a few years younger all wanted to be JonJon Rittenberg. He was a girl magnet. Big parties at his house and up at the ski team lodge in Whistler. One or two events got quite out of hand back in the day. Police had to shut them down. Jon married Daisy Wentworth of Wentworth family fame. Her father, Labden Wentworth, founded TerraWest, and their name is, like, huge in the ski and golf resort industry. Daisy told me Jon now works at the TerraWest office downtown. He and Daisy recently moved back to Vancouver from Silver Aspens in Colorado. She wanted to be closer to her parents when she has the baby.” He hesitates. “Can you please let me know what’s going on?”