Deadly Appearances (24 page)

Rick gave me a little wave, and I walked over and leaned against a pile of rocks, carefully arranged by size and colour. There was going to be a rock garden outside the chapel. Soren Eames had told me that the day we walked up the hill.

It really was warm. I could feel the sweat start under my arms.

Rick began again. “Six months ago, Soren Eames stood on this spot in triumph.…”

I turned and walked into the cool building.

Soren Eames’s memorial service broke my heart. The administration of the college had brought in a grief counsellor to help the students deal with Soren’s death. She had suggested that they would recover from their loss more quickly if they had a hand in planning the service. It was a sensible recommendation and a terrible one.

Because they were children who had little experience of death, they hadn’t learned the tricks of ceremony and tradition the middle-aged use to mute emotion. After the funeral, Mark Evanson, his young face swollen from crying, told me, “We wanted it to be special for Soren – not something out of a book. We wanted to say good-bye to him in our own voices.” The service was full of touches that collapsed the space between us and our grief. The coffin was covered with a flawless piece of white lace that Soren had brought back with him from Dublin the summer before. Placed carefully in the centre was a child’s Bible. The president of the student association told us that Soren’s grandfather had brought it to the hospital the day Soren was born.

There was a program. The school choir sang a ragged selection of songs that Soren had liked – some solid gospel hymns but also, surprisingly, two show tunes, “Somewhere” from
West Side Story
and a Stephen Sondheim song called “Not While I’m Around.”

Between selections, students came forward with memories of special moments, special kindnesses. Finally, there was a tape of Soren’s speech at the dedication of the
CAP
Centre. When his voice, full of music and hope, began, the sobbing in that silent room cut straight to the bone. Beside me, Rick Spenser shuddered.

At the end, Lori Evanson, a small figure in black, stepped to the front and in her sweet, tuneful voice sang “Amazing Grace.”

Then her husband came and stood beside her and said very simply, “John 1:5 will help us now. ‘The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.’ “And it was over.

Rick and I didn’t find much to say to one another on the drive to the city. I could feel a knot of tension in my shoulders and the beginning of a headache, so I decided to go to the Lakeshore Club for a swim.

When I told Rick, he smiled. “That seems like an inspired idea.”

“Inspired enough for you to join me?”

He looked horrified. “God, no.” Then, seeing my face, he added more kindly, “Do you swim often?”

“Every Saturday morning. We all do. Well, we all do something at the Lakeshore Club. It’s our one invariable routine.”

He smiled. “Routine is comforting, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said, “it is. Now where would you like to be taken?”

I dropped him off at his network’s local studio. Then I drove to the Lakeshore Club. An hour later, damp-haired but relaxed, I decided to drive to the correctional centre to see Eve.

The guard, a tall, pretty redhead whose name, according to her identification tag, was Terry Shaw, told me Eve hadn’t talked all day but she seemed “engaged,” so they weren’t concerned. As we turned the corner to the hospital block, Terry Shaw said, “She’s in the craft area doing a little project we got her started on. You can watch her through the glass if you like.”

Eve was sitting at a table near the observation window, bent over, drawing the wattles on the head of a construction-paper turkey. The table was littered with turkeys, and they were cleverly done, proud, handsome birds with bright and malevolent eyes. As she worked, Eve’s thick grey hair fell forward, blocking her face from my eyes. I stood and watched her for a few minutes. When it was time to leave, I tapped on the glass and waved. She looked up at me distractedly, like a woman called from an important task by something foolish. Then, without acknowledging me, she smiled and went back to her turkeys.

Dinner was a casual and comfortable meal. It was warm enough to eat on the deck, so while Rick went to the store for beer, I put a cloth on the table and set out plates of pastrami and salami and trays of bread and mustards and fat kosher dills. Like the man who brought it, the Red Panzer’s cheesecake did not disappoint. It was every bit as good as I remembered.

The train for Winnipeg left early, before 7:00 a.m., so the boys brought our packed suitcases down to the front hall and we made an early night of it. When I was locking up, I looked over to the granny flat. In the square of light in the darkness I could see Rick Spenser on the telephone. After the jagged emotions of the morning it was a comforting sight.

CHAPTER

16

I had worried that Rick Spenser would feel like an outsider, or worse, put a tear in the seamless intimacy that always sprang up when I was with Ali Sutherland and her husband, Morton Lee. But as soon as Rick walked over, hand outstretched, to greet Ali in the Winnipeg train station, it seemed as if they belonged together. Ali is a big woman, tall, heavy and always brilliantly fashionable. As she and Rick stood under the dome of the old Victorian station, they looked like travellers from a huge and handsome race.

From the moment Rick opened the door of Ali and Mort’s brick bungalow in Tuxedo Park, he was at home. The work worlds of Rick and the two doctors might have been disparate, but their private lives were fired by the same loves: art, opera and the passionate enjoyment of food.

Two hours after we arrived, Rick Spenser was in the kitchen pressing a square of butter into a rectangle of dough for puff pastry, sipping an icy martini and fighting with Mort about whether the duet from
The Pearl Fishers
was the most perfect piece of music ever written. The evening was full of good talk and easy laughter. Even Peter forgot his shyness and told stories about a boy from school named Gumby who seemed to have achieved mythic stature among the grade elevens. That night as I slid between the soft flannelette sheets in the front guest room, I said aloud, “I’m going to stay here forever,” and I fell asleep, smiling.

Saturday morning, Morton Lee pushed himself back from the breakfast table and said, “Here’s what Ali and I are going to do this morning. We’re going to take Peter and Angus and anyone else who wants to come downtown to the greatest toy store in western Canada.” Seeing Peter’s polite display of enthusiasm, Mort thumped himself on the head theatrically and said, “Did I say toy store? What I meant, of course, was toys for jocks – a store that has every kind of ball the mind of the jock can conceive of and all the equipment you need to play anything, plus cards: baseball cards, football cards, hockey cards. Everything.” Then Peter’s enthusiasm was real.

Rick sipped his coffee. “Well, I’m a cook not a jock so I’ll make dinner tonight. I have the menu planned and it is, to use Peter’s word, dynamite.”

As I slid behind the wheel of Ali’s Volvo, I knew I had left behind a happy house.

Tuxedo Park Road, where Lane Appleby lived, was just a five-minute drive from Ali and Mort’s. It was a street of tall trees, wide, deep lots and houses that glowed with the sheen of money. The Appleby house had the tallest trees, the widest, deepest lot and the most discreet glow. When I lifted the door knocker, I was glad Ali’s shiny Volvo was parked out front. Even borrowed glory is better than no glory at all.

Lane Appleby’s housekeeper answered the door. She was a square Scot with faded red hair and pale, freckled skin. She was no more welcoming in person than she had been on the telephone. In fact, she made no attempt to disguise the fact that she was not glad to see me. The day was cool, but she didn’t invite me in.

“Mrs. Appleby is resting. You’ll have to come back at a more convenient time.” She turned and began to shut the door.

I edged my purse into the space that was still open. “This is the time we agreed to. I’m certain if you’ll just speak with Mrs. Appleby …”

“I’m certain” – she pronounced it “sairtin” – “she would prefer another time,” she said and began to push the door shut again.

I stuck my head past her into the house and called, “Lane Appleby, this is Joanne Kilbourn here to see you.” From inside the house I heard a voice husky and petulant. “Come.” I shot the Scot a look of triumph as I flashed past her into the front hall. Ahead was a foyer as big as my living room and a staircase that circled up to the second floor, but we turned left and walked through the dining room into a small room off it that opened onto the garden. I had been on enough tours of houses of this age to know what the room had been – a ladies’ sitting room, a place where women could wait out the time until the gentlemen came back from their brandy and cigars.

The room had been restored with taste and intelligence. All the elaborate detail of the woodwork had been left but everything, walls and woodwork, had been painted a soft yellow. There were three flowery love seats, just the right size for female confidences, turned toward one another in front of the window, a pretty grandmother’s clock in the corner, and in front of the fireplace, which glowed with warmth on this cold October morning, was a round table, set for coffee. On either side of the table was a wing chair covered in something silky and embroidered with bright, exotic birds. Lane Appleby was sitting in the chair facing the door.

The whole scene was so obviously one of welcome that I was baffled at the housekeeper’s hostility. But when Lane Appleby stood to greet me, I understood. The lady of the house was as drunk as a monkey.

She reached across the table to take my hand and fell, laughing, back into her chair. I would have guessed her age at fifty-five but a great fifty-five: trim, athletic body, good skin, skilful makeup and a terrific haircut. When she smiled, the years melted away and you could see the girl she must have been, flirtatious, with that confidence lovely women often have, that way of saying, without saying, we both know this beauty thing is just silly, but let’s enjoy it.

Her voice was husky and pleasant. Next to her was an ashtray, full, and a half-empty pack of Camels. She’d earned the gravel in that voice. She picked up the coffeepot, aimed it at my cup, splashed the tablecloth and laughed.

“Well, maybe you’d better take care of yourself,” she said. Then without self-consciousness, she reached beside her to pick up a bottle of brandy and poured a generous slug into her own cup. That time she didn’t spill a drop. After she took a sip she sat back and looked at me. Her eyes were as unfocused as a baby’s and about as comprehending. She had lost the reason I was there.

“I’m Andy Boychuk’s friend, Joanne Kilbourn,” I said.

As soon as I mentioned Andy’s name, a flash of pain crossed her face. She took another slug of her drink, stood up and said very formally, “Mrs. Kilbourn, I’m not well today. I wonder if you would do me the favour of coming another time,” and she moved unsteadily toward the door. The side of the coffee table caught her leg, and she started to fall. I caught her before she hit the grandmother clock. She crumpled against me and leaned her head on my shoulder, like a football player who’d taken a punishing tackle.

“I’d like to go upstairs to bed now,” she said. There was nothing to do but take her there.

We walked through the dining room, past a magnificent table that would seat sixteen easily. Somehow, I doubted that Lane Appleby needed to seat sixteen often any more. When we came into the entrance hall, I looked around for the housekeeper.

“Gone,” said Lane Appleby, “gone for the turkey,” and she leaned even more heavily against me. Ahead, the stairs curved perilously toward the second floor. I adjusted my grip on her and took a deep breath, and we started up. It was a long trip. Lining the wall beside the staircase were pictures of Lane. As we went, she gave me a running commentary. The first one was black and white, a professionally posed picture of her in a figure-skating outfit.

“Nineteen forty-six,” she said, “the year I met Charlie. I was in the Ice Capades, but that picture’s a fake. I was never a star, just in the chorus … Not really good enough but, as you can see, cute as a button.”

“You still are,” I said, and meant it.

She laughed her throaty laugh. “Well, I think they would have canned me, but I beat them to it … Married the boss.” We moved up two steps toward the next picture – this one a wedding photo, palely tinted. I’d seen Charlie Appleby’s picture in the paper a hundred times, mostly with his hockey team. He was a big, rough-looking man, twenty years older than his pretty bride, but in the photo with Lane on their wedding day, plainly adoring.

That look of adoration never changed. The pictures by the staircase traced a life of rare and singular pleasures. Lane, laughing, struggles under the weight of the Stanley Cup while Charlie, the man who takes care of his wife, reaches to steady it. Lane, fifties-chic in a dark mink coat and a close-fitting feathered hat, smiles up into the face of a very young Lester Pearson while Charlie beams. Lane and Charlie, tanned and vital, drink cool drinks, piled high with fruit, at Montego Bay; Lane and Charlie, brilliant in their bright ski clothes, stand silhouetted against the blue skies of Stowe, Vermont.

Finally, there is one of Lane by herself. Handsome still, but clearly growing older, she sits alone in the photographer’s studio.

“That’s the last one I’ll get done,” she said. “Damn depressing. If I had the nerve, I’d take them all down. Depressing, watching yourself grow old.” She turned and made a sweeping gesture with her hand and almost pulled us down the staircase. I strengthened my hold on her and dragged her along the hall to her room.

She didn’t put up a struggle. She sat at her dresser while I turned down her bedspread, then she lay on top of her sheets and fell instantly asleep. I was looking for some sort of cover for her when I found the picture – the picture that I had felt all along must exist somewhere. It was in a silver oval frame. A little girl of about six or seven in a white confirmation dress, her hair corkscrew tight in ringlets, stands on the stairs of a church. Beside her, a bishop, paunchy, bulbous-nosed, looks unsmilingly into the camera.