Free Butterfly Kills by Brenda Chapman Page B

maddening Kala Stonechild. He should call Rouleau to let him know what she was up to, but that would alienate her and get their partnership off to a bad start. He’d try to finish up early here and track her down. She was turning out to be just one more woman out to make his life hell.
    Guitar music circled the house from the backyard. Kala pushed open the gate and followed a brick path into a small patio area wrapped in flower gardens and shrubs. A man sat on a stool with his back to her, a guitar in his lap, one leather-sandaled foot crossed over the other leg. She recognized a Gordon Lightfoot song: “Railroad Trilogy.” The man’s brown hair was pulled back into a curly ponytail. He was shirtless, his broad shoulders and back lean and muscled. When he turned around, Kala saw why he’d been nicknamed Wolf. The lower half of his face was bearded and his eyes were almond-shaped and a curious shade of green and gold. His hands and body went still.
    “Yes? Can I help you?”
    She stepped around clay flowerpots bursting with begonias and impatiens. Thyme grew between the bricks at her feet, sending up a dusky fragrance as she walked closer. “Are you Wolf Edwards?”
    “I am. And who might you be?” He smiled, his face friendly, unguarded.
    She pulled the ID from her pocket that Vera had typed up that very morning and watched his expression alter. “Detective Kala Stonechild. I’m here about Leah Sampson.” She was now a metre from him. She stood in full sun while he sat in the shade of a blowsy willow tree that draped around him, only a short distance above his head. His brow furrowed as he read the ID and for a moment, she hesitated.
    He lifted his eyes to hers. “Has she gotten herself into trouble?”
    “I’m sorry to say that she’s been murdered,” Kala said. The words never came out soft enough, but how could they?
    Wolf started to stand and then fell back. He stared at her as if seeking evidence in her eyes that she was lying. When he couldn’t find any, he gripped the neck of the guitar with both hands and levered it upward, level with his chest. He began to swing it into the trunk of the willow tree but instead swung it past and into a rose bush several feet away. Kala stood stock still in front of him and waited, unfazed by his anger. She’d seen every reaction imaginable after delivering this news, from complete denial to physical illness. Without warning, he stood and kicked the stool against the trunk of the tree. One sob ripped through his throat into the silence of the garden. Kala took a step closer and put a hand onto his forearm.
    “Should we go inside and sit?” she asked quietly. “I can tell you what I know.”
    His back straightened. He searched her face, his eyes seeking purchase. “I need to know what happened.” Each word seemed ripped from his throat.
    He turned abruptly and led her through a torn screen door directly into a kitchen. She took in a clean square room with a green tile floor and white cupboards. A wooden blind hung at a crooked angle over an open window. The sun streamed in through the open slats. She crossed to the table, ignoring the remains of a joint in an overflowing ash tray. They sat across from each other at the pine table.
    “Tell me,” he said.

Chapter Twelve
    I can’t share much, but we believe Leah was killed late Friday night or early Saturday morning in her apartment. When was the last time you saw her?” Kala pulled a notebook and pen from her handbag and sat back, waiting for Wolf to answer.
    “I walked her home after she finished her shift on Friday. I watched her go into the house where she’s living. It was around nine-thirty. Then I met a buddy at the campus pub. Did it happen in her apartment?”
    “Yes. Did you see anybody on the street or hanging around near her building?”
    Wolf shook his head. “Was somebody waiting for her? If I’d walked her to her apartment door, would she still be alive?” He moaned and dropped his head into