Free Twilight Is Not Good for Maidens by Lou Allin Page A

entered the village of Sooke. A stable population of a few thousand in the fifties had mushroomed when a huge housing development spelled the end of the quiet fishing enclave. As prices in Victoria skyrocketed, developers bought up the picture-postcard harbourfront for condos, townhouses, and even a splashy hotel with a conference centre and wine bar. Driving an extra half an hour could save a homeowner one hundred thousand dollars. They passed the first traffic light near two small stripmalls. Fast-food incursions had been limited to McDonalds and A&W. Not even the ubiquitous Tims had made it to Sooke, the locals preferring their Serious Coffee and The Stick in the Mud. The tipping point was approaching. To update Victor Hugo’s saying, “Nothing, not all the armies in the world, can stop development.”
    The car crossed Sooke River on the old bridge, the serene harbour on one side and the emerald chain of hills on the left. A pair of swans swam below. Leaving the forested hills of Saseenos, Chipper made the first right turn at Gillespie, then onto East Sooke Road. Thanks to no commercial development except for Bill’s Food and Feed, time was standing still for the moment. Houses had more acreage, which gave privacy but raised security concerns.
    Gradually rising into the hills, she made another turn at the fire station onto Coppermine. Hidden by the bigleaf maple and alder foliage amid the evergreens, few homes were visible from the road. Late fall mums and asters in glass jars and fresh eggs in coolers sat for $3.50 on the honour system at makeshift stalls. This wasn’t strolling territory. Anyone who would steal eggs or chrysanthemums didn’t deserve to live in paradise.
    House 1233 was at the end of Coppermine, down a long winding private road with a Beware of Dog sign. The west-coast-style Craftsman house trimmed with cedar was only a few years old. A large cream and brown Afghan hound with a long-nosed head turned limpid eyes toward her and loped over in an innocent fashion. A man in his thirties came down a temporary ramp from the deck, a puzzled look on his smooth, round face. His raven hair was razor cut, and he carried a can of soda. Holly and Chipper got out.
    “Officers, hello. What can I do for you? Is there a problem?” He wore chinos, low cut boots, and a denim workshirt with an Orca embroidered on the pocket. Around his waist was a tool belt with a hammer and screwdrivers. At one corner of the yard, a shed was in progress. The dog came closer and nosed her knee with its muzzle.
    “Cloudy, go now. The lady does not care for your drool.” He tossed a stone, and the animal trotted off in pursuit. “Ten months only. A baby. Good for prowlers who judge only by size.”
    Jetta with the license plate in question was parked in a carport. Holly took a deep breath and scanned the yard. This was getting all too easy. In age and height, the man fit the suspect’s profile.
    Holly introduced herself and Chipper to Victor Grobbo, who stood with broad shoulders, the neck of a bull, and arms folded in a less-than-happy pose. Then she explained what had happened at French Beach, watching his face for a reaction and resting her palms on her hips, slightly grazing the top of her holster. Victor brushed his hand down one sleeve, releasing a scatter of sawdust. “My God. That’s the same age as my little sister. Was the girl all right? You’re not saying that … and why come out here?”
    “She’s doing well,” Holly said, then pointed to the vehicle. “But someone reported seeing your car at French Beach Saturday night. Would you mind telling me where you were from dusk to around eleven?” Knowing that the longer time frame might worry him further, she gave him a neutral stare, watching for body language. Words lied easily, and so did vocal tones. Posture, movement, and general tension were something else. Few people wanted uninvited police arrive at their home, even if no neighbours could witness the