12 Rose Street (21 page)

“I packed them with Jill’s things.”

“That was wise. There’s no use dwelling on the past. We all have a lot to look forward to.”

“I’m trying,” Mieka said. “I’m taking the girls to the Science Centre this afternoon. I sent Jill a text telling her that her suitcases are in the hall and asking her to get them out of our house while we’re gone. I told her to leave the key I gave her on the kitchen table.”

“One step at a time,” I said.

Mieka gave me a tired smile. “Right,” she said. “One step at a time.”

On the way home from church, we drove to Gale’s Florist on 13th Avenue. Alison, the owner’s daughter, was at the counter misting a bouquet of peach roses, warm as a glowing sunset.

“Those are exquisite,” I said.

Alison raised a nicely arched eyebrow. “If the orders I’ve been sending to your address are any indication, I doubt if you’re in the market for flowers.”

“You’re right about that,” I said. “Alison, I came to ask about the gerberas that were delivered to our house yesterday.”

“Is there a problem with them?”

“No, they’re lovely. I just wondered about the card Liz Meighen sent. Did she bring the card into the store herself?”

“Yes.”

“Did she seem all right?”

Alison stopped misting the roses. “Joanne, you and my mother have been friends for years. You know she’s big on protecting our customers’ privacy.”

“I know, and I appreciate it. But Liz Meighen is also a friend and I’m concerned about her. She called yesterday morning and said she had to see me. We agreed on a time, but she never showed up. The message she sent with the flowers was unsettling enough to bring me here today. Do you know who Liz dealt with when she brought in the note?”

“It was me,” Alison said. “And I’ve been worrying about her ever since. She wasn’t herself. Mrs. Meighen has known me since I was ten years old, but she couldn’t remember my name. She was confused and she seemed to have trouble focusing. When she left, I walked her to the door to make certain she wasn’t driving.”

“And she wasn’t?”

“No, she had a cab waiting.”

“Did she say anything about going on a trip?”

For the first time since I’d begun asking about Liz, Alison relaxed. “Oh, you know about the trip. I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody.”

“But she did say she was leaving town?”

“Yes. When her daughter was ill, Mrs. Meighen came in
here often. She liked to choose flowers that would lift Beverly’s spirits. I hadn’t seen her for ages, so yesterday I told her how good it was to see her in the shop again. She said she probably wouldn’t be back for a while because she was going away. I asked where she was going, and she put her finger to her lips.”

“So you don’t know where she went.”

“No. I just hope that wherever she is, she’ll find what she needs.”

Zack had functions or meetings all afternoon. It would be a long day for him, so the reservation I made at the Sahara Club was an early one. Taylor and Angus were both free for the evening, so in addition to Cronus there were four of us at dinner. Cronus’s choice of the Sahara Club for his big night out was in character. The restaurant’s website said it all. “The best steaks, big wines, all the while you are surrounded by a surplus of polished oak and red velour booths.” The all-male wait staff was discrete, and the patrons had the self-satisfied auras of the successful. Cronus would have pronounced the Sahara Club “a classy joint.”

Zack had brought the Inferno Red urn along in a roomy leather messenger bag, and after he’d ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon, he took the urn out and set it on the table. When the waiter brought our champagne, we drank a toast to Cronus and turned our attention to our menus. “Sky’s the limit,” Zack said. “This is Cronus’s party.” We ordered appetizers, then, because the Sahara was a steak house, we all scrutinized the beef options.

“That thirty-two-ounce Kobe Tomahawk looks interesting,” Zack said.

“I wonder if the Sahara Club has a defibrillator on site?” I said. “I was thinking you and I might share the Chateaubriand for two.”

“Sold,” Zack said. “But only because, as you have pointed out once or twice, I’m a sharing kind of guy.”

“I’m not,” Angus said. “I’m twenty-two years old and it’ll probably be a while before I get another chance to eat a steak that costs $159.95.”

“Cronus would be proud,” Zack said. “How about you, Taylor?”

“I’m going to have the filet mignon.”

Zack motioned the server to come over and we ordered. “I have news,” Taylor said. “I talked to Cole Dimitroff this afternoon. Darrell thought it would be a good idea if I talked to Cole directly.”

“And?” I said.

“And I really like how he plans to use my paintings in Corydon’s advertising. Since he bought
BlueBoy21
from Dr. Treadgold, Cole’s had the painting at his apartment. The plan now is to hang
BlueBoy21
and
Endangered
in the head office, but all the Corydon stores will have copies of the paintings and details from the paintings will be used in their print advertising.”

“So what does Corydon sell?” Angus asked.

“Very expensive clothing for men,” Zack said. “They cater to a gay clientele, hence the name Corydon.”

“Because … ?” Angus said.

“Because Andre Gide wrote a book about homosexuality titled
Corydon,
” I said.

“Cool,” Angus said. “So, Zack, did you get a good deal for the right to use Taylor’s work?”

Taylor gave her brother a look that would have curdled milk. “Angus,
I
was the one who worked out the agreement with Cole, and I got very good terms. Thanks for asking.”

“Sorry,” Angus said. “I’m a dweeb, but even dweebs have their uses. I was the one who discovered that the house Mum and Zack inherited at 12 Rose Street is not for sale at any price.”

Taylor’s eyes widened. “It must be really special.”

“It’s not,” I said. “It’s well kept, but it’s still slum housing.”

“Slum housing with a strange history,” Angus said. “I went through the file. Before Cronus purchased the property, it was a party house.”

“What’s a party house?” Taylor said.

“It’s a place where people go to get drunk or shoot up or have sex or all three,” Angus said. “There were pictures in the file. Mattresses on the floor. Stuffing coming out of chairs. Broken glass. Blood stains everywhere. Black mould. To his credit, Cronus cleaned it up. He still has a cleaning service in there every two weeks.”

Zack was dubious. “Are you sure about that? Not many slum houses have a cleaning service.”

Angus winced. “I could be wrong. I really just skimmed through the file. I’ll give it a serious look tonight.”

“Bring the files to the house Tuesday,” I said as the appetizers arrived. “That house intrigues me, so does the woman who lives there.”

Zack speared a piece of smoked salmon. “Shall we declare a moratorium on talking about our slum empire while we’re eating?”

“Good idea,” I said. “Thanksgiving is two weeks away. We’re going to the lake from Thursday night till Monday afternoon, so all suggestions about food and fun are welcome.”

The food was excellent and Taylor’s news and the prospect of Thanksgiving had buoyed our spirits. Zack watched in amazement as our younger son ate the last morsel of his thirty-two-ounce steak. We had a final toast to Cronus, then Zack placed the red urn back in his messenger bag, and, full and happy, we made our way to the entrance. Angus and Taylor went ahead to get the car while Zack settled the bill.

As Zack and I waited for the credit card machine to complete the transaction, I looked back into the restaurant. The arrangement of the red velour booths gave diners privacy, and the booth in which Graham Meighen and Jill Oziowy were seated hadn’t been visible from where we had been sitting. But I could see the booth and its occupants clearly from the entrance. Jill was wearing a silky low-cut black top that revealed her cleavage. As I watched, she laughed, leaned forward seductively, and touched her index finger to Graham’s lips.

I tapped Zack’s arm. “Check out the booth near the window on the right side of the dining room.”

Zack turned his chair. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “That didn’t take long. I guess Jill is now officially in the Ridgeway camp.”

I glanced at Jill. She and Graham were now holding hands. “How is this going to end?” I said.

Zack slipped his credit card back into his wallet and sighed. “Not well,” he said. “Let’s just hope the collateral damage is minimal.”

I didn’t go to Saskatoon with Zack for
Quinlan Live.
I needed to check our poll numbers and identify areas that we might win if we redeployed volunteers, so after Zack and Milo left for the airport, I went straight to the Noodle House. As always, I took whatever chair was vacant, cleared a space on the table in front of me, and opened my laptop. Before I settled in with my polls and volunteer lists, I googled Graham Meighen. The portrait accompanying his executive profile was the usual head-and-shoulders shot of the flourishing businessman. He was sixty-four and there were few surprises in his biography. He was born in Storthoaks, Saskatchewan, a town that now had a population of fewer than one hundred. He had a degree in business from the University of Saskatchewan. He ran his father-in-law’s construction company for years before becoming
CEO
of Lancaster Development. He served on a number of boards. Seemingly, he was a successful man and a wealthy one.

I was still staring at Graham Meighen’s portrait when I realized the second hour of
Quinlan Live
was about to start. The Noodle House had a radio left behind from the days when the Noodle House
was
a noodle house. I turned it on
and leaned back. Quinlan announced that the topic for the day was “Do attack ads work?” He introduced Zack, and then, before the lines were opened to callers, Zack and Quinlan had a lawyerly conversation about the rights of the accused to legal counsel. As Milo had predicted, the topic was dry despite Zack and Quinlan’s spirited exchange, and callers soon pushed the dialogue into more fertile ground. It didn’t take long for arguments about the effectiveness of attack ads to disintegrate into a simple exchange of attacks.

I hadn’t talked to Milo about orchestrating our callers, but I recognized many of the voices relaying our campaign’s talking points about the favouritism and lack of transparency of the Ridgeway administration, its indifference to the poor and marginalized, and its lack of a coherent policy for future sustainable development.

Our supporters pitched some low balls, but they were well within the range of robust rhetoric. The attacks on Zack were unrelentingly ugly and ad hominem. Zack was the criminal’s friend, he had gang connections, his family’s lavish lifestyle was financed by the dregs of society. Quinlan cut off one particularly vitriolic caller but not before she had accused Zack of being a gambler, a drinker, and a fornicator who lacked the moral strength to lead our city.

I was boiling, but Zack sounded sanguine. He thanked the caller for her time, repeated one of his favourite lines, “I have committed many sins but no crimes,” and began talking about his plans for Regina.

I smiled when I heard the voice of the next caller. It was Peggy Kreviazuk, and she was in full take-no-prisoners mode. “Zack Shreve has been open about the mistakes he’s made in the past,” she said. “I don’t approve of personal attacks, but Scott Ridgeway and our current city council are puppets of Graham Meighen and his associates at Lancaster Development. I have questions about the character and behaviour of Meighen
and his crowd. This is not mudslinging. There are serious questions and we deserve serious answers.

“Three years ago the Ridgeway campaign responded to public pressure and promised immediate action on affordable housing. Last year the mayor announced the city had designated certain properties on Rose Street and other areas of Ward 6 as sites of future infill housing. I have it on good authority that the city has paid out hundreds of thousands of dollars for these properties, but the money did not go to the owner of the properties. It went into the pockets of Lancaster Development so that they could buy the Rose Street houses, tear them down, and replace them with condominiums they would sell at market value. Mr. Mayor, you have appeared only at select carefully staged events since Labour Day. Step forward and answer questions about why the taxpayers’ money has ended up in Lancaster’s pocket.”

Graham Meighen’s image was still on the screen in front of me, and Liz Meighen’s warnings were stamped on my consciousness. My heart was pounding. The mayoralty race was already a high-stakes game, and Peggy had just upped the ante.

Jack Quinlan was smooth. “Those are provocative questions,” he said. “Mayor Ridgeway and Mr. Meighen deserve a chance to answer them. I’d like to extend an invitation to both the mayor and Mr. Meighen to join me on
Quinlan Live
at a time and date of their choosing.”

The top of the hour meant time for the news. Zack called me before the newsreader had finished the first sentence of the first story. “Jo, I know you wouldn’t send out an eighty-two-year-old woman to do our dirty work, but do you think Peggy was right?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “I didn’t know Lancaster was planning to build condos on those properties. I certainly hadn’t heard the city had given the money allocated for the infill housing to Lancaster.”

“Well, it sounds like somebody knew, and that person fed the information to Peggy.”

“The informant would have had to be somebody Peggy trusted,” I said. “My guess is it was Jill. She knows Peggy from the old days when Ian was in government. Now she’s looking for a story. And Jill and Graham have obviously spent some time together. She could have unearthed the information about the condos and decided to set the cat among the pigeons to stir things up. I’ll see what I can find out. What time are you getting home?”

“With luck, before one.”

“Good. We can have a swim.”

“That’s not much of a carrot.”

“I’ll sweeten the pot.”

The glow I felt at the prospect of having Zack home didn’t last long. I had just closed down my laptop and picked up my jacket when Howard phoned. His greeting was not cheery. “What dunderhead is responsible for handing Peggy Kreviazuk that bombshell about Lancaster’s dirty dealings with the mayor’s office? Anybody who knows Peggy knows she wouldn’t make that information public anonymously. She might as well have painted a target on her chest.”