Authors: Gail Bowen
“Your dog’s mad at you,” Morris said. “Hang on. I’ll get you something to put under him.” He shoved the stub of his cigarette between his lips, walked over to his half-ton, pulled out a hunk of carpeting, and handed it to me. “Make him a little bed,” he said, and watched until I did as I’d been told. Willie curled up happily. I picked up my coffee and the gents went back to their conversation. As always, I arrived
in medias res
.
“I’m betting he swallowed his gun,” Morris said.
“Why the hell would anyone swallow his gun?” Stan Gardiner asked.
“He didn’t actually
swallow the gun.”
Morris hawked a goober disgustedly. “It’s a figger of speech. Jesus, Stan, if you stopped mooning over the champagne lady on Lawrence Welk and watched a real man’s show once in a while, you might join the rest of us in the twentieth century.”
Stan glared at him. “The twenty-first century,” he said. “That’s where the rest of us live, Morris – in the twenty-first century.”
Aubrey entered the fray. “Where we have
VCRS
that allow us to watch old
TV
shows and movies whenever we want.”
Morris fixed his friends with a malevolent eye. “And you’re so busy watching those old shows that you lose touch with how people today talk. Nowadays when people speak of a man swallowing his gun, they mean the man killed himself.”
I was keen to see where this discussion of semantics would take us, but at that moment Angus’s truck appeared, and Willie and Endzone got into a barking match. By the time Morris and I had calmed the dogs, the thread of conversation had been broken. As I left to greet my son, the old gents were talking about what would happen to a dog that had his bark removed, a good topic but not, in my opinion, a great one.
When Angus opened the truck’s tailgate, the scent of fresh-picked strawberries was enticing. “Put a quart of those aside for us, will you?” I said.
“Help me unload the truck and I’ll knock off a couple of bucks.” He grinned, and I felt a rush of love for this handsome stranger with the easy ways and quick smile who seemed to move farther from me every day.
“Can we talk a bit first?” I asked.
My son frowned. “What’s up?”
“Have you heard from Alex lately?” I asked.
“How lately?” Angus said carefully, and in that moment I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me.
“Within the last few days,” I said. “Robert Hallam came out to the lake after lunch. He says Alex booked off work to attend to personal business, and he hasn’t come back.”
Angus looked away. “That doesn’t sound like Alex. He’s Mr. Reliable.”
“He is,” I agreed. “That’s why this unexplained absence is so puzzling.” I stepped closer. “People are predictable,” I said. “Take you, for instance. Whenever you answer a question with a question, I know you’re holding something back.”
The corners of Angus’s mouth twitched. Once again I’d found him out. “Is this important?” he asked.
“I think it may be,” I said. “So shall we start again? When was the last time you talked to Alex?”
He didn’t hesitate. “The Sunday you went to Saskatoon to see Mieka.”
“Did he just call you out of the blue?”
“No,” Angus said. “We’ve kept in touch.” He sighed.
“And you never told me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“How come?”
Angus was his father’s son, tall and dark, with an unruly forelock and an easy smile. But his eyes, grey-green and unreadable, were mine. His gaze didn’t waver. “Because I didn’t want to have this conversation,” he said. “But if you say it’s important, I guess we should.” He pointed to the tailgate. “Do you want to sit down?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “Let’s hear it.”
“Last year, just before New Year’s, I got into some trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Drinking and driving.”
My stomach turned over. “Oh God, Angus, how many times have we talked about that?”
“A million. I was a mutt. Okay, I know, but that’s not the point. The point is I got pulled over in a spot check. I honestly thought I was all right. I’d eaten and I hadn’t had anything to drink for three hours, but I blew above .04 – not that bad, but bad enough. The cop took my licence and got Leah to drive home.”
“Leah was with you.”
“And she was furious at herself, said she should have insisted on driving. We also had three people in the back who were really ripped, so the car smelled rank. That didn’t help matters. Anyway, when I got home I called Alex.”
“You didn’t ask him to intervene …?”
“Give me a little credit, Mum. The officer who pulled me over had been very clear about the consequences. I knew I’d lost my licence for a month and I knew I had to take a
DUI
class. But I was scared. I forgot to ask her if the charge was going to be on my record permanently. That’s why I called Alex. I just needed – I don’t know – reassurance, but Alex insisted on talking to me face to face.”
“Where was I when all this was going on?”
“Upstairs in bed.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“It was late.” Angus’s tone revealed his exasperation. “Really late. Mum, give me a break here. I was scared. I hadn’t had a chance to think through what had happened. I was hoping Alex would give me a piece of information that would sort of soften things when I talked to you.”
“But you never did talk to me.”
“Because Alex said you’d been through enough, and he was right. It hadn’t been that long since you two broke up. Then Aunt Jill was in all that trouble at Christmas. I knew you’d been gritting your teeth through the holidays. I didn’t think you needed me barrelling in to tell you I’d been arrested and your ex-boyfriend had come over to take me to Mr. Bean for coffee.”
“Nice summation,” I said. “And put that way, it sounds as if you were right. So what did you and Alex talk about?”
Angus shrugged. “Mostly about how people have to be careful about the decisions they make, because everything a person does stays with him. Pretty much what you would have said.”
“That is pretty much what I would have said,” I agreed. “I wonder why Alex felt he had to be the one to say it.”
“You’re angry,” Angus said.
“A little,” I said. “I wish Alex practised what he preached. He made a decision; he should have been prepared to accept the consequences.”
“Not being part of your life meant he shouldn’t be part of mine?” I could hear the resentment in my son’s voice.
“Angus, I’m not the bad guy here. It was Alex’s choice. He was the one who walked away. I wanted us to stay together.”
“He wanted that, too, Mum. You wouldn’t be so harsh if you’d seen him the night I lost my licence. Alex has always been on top of things. When he came to drive me to Mr. Bean, he looked beaten down. And all the time that he kept talking about decisions and dragging everything along with you, it wasn’t like a lecture. It was as if he was talking about himself.”
“Angus …”
“Mum, let me finish … please. The day after Chris Altieri died, it was worse. Alex just kept looking at me. It was bugging me so I asked him to stop. He apologized, then he said he had to convince himself that I was okay.”
“He was a day late and a dollar short there, wasn’t he?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if Alex had been concerned about our family, he could have called, and he didn’t. Not once in all the months after he left.”
“He wanted to, Mum.”
“Then why didn’t he pick up the phone?”
“I don’t know,” Angus said miserably. “All I know is, the day after Chris died, Alex told me that the best time of his life was his time with us, and he’d do anything to keep us from grief. Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”
“No,” I said. “Maybe some day, when everyone’s feeling less fragile, we can talk about it.”
“That’d be good,” Angus said.
“I agree,” I said. “Now, reassure me. You really have learned not to get behind the wheel when you’ve had a drink?”
“I’ve learned,” Angus said. “That
DUI
course I took sealed it. I made friends with this guy named Pedro who got picked up on his birthday. He was so drunk from his party that he doesn’t remember getting behind the wheel. Wouldn’t want to run into Pedro on the highway. Lots of other scary stories. We got treated like infants for the whole weekend, but we deserved it. Oh yeah, the guy who was my
DUI
instructor was also the guy who took me out for my driver’s test. How about that?”
“Cosmic irony,” I said. “So is the charge going to be permanently on your licence?”
“Nope,” Angus said. “I was lucky. Didn’t run into Pedro. Didn’t hurt anybody else. Nothing on my record permanently. Horseshoes up my ass but I’m not going to push it.”
“Good,” I said. “I’ll sleep better knowing that.” Then I put my arms around my son and, despite the gawkers in the cars going by, I held him close for a long time.
There was a message on my cellphone when I got back to the cottage. It was Maggie Niewinski. I called her back.
She sounded breathless. “Glad you caught me,” she said. “I was just on my way downtown.”
“Shall I call later?”
Maggie laughed. “No, I’m not due in court for an hour. I thought, since I was in Regina, I’d check out the sales. I was just calling to bring you up to speed.”
“Have you found something out?”
“Nothing encouraging. Sandra Mikalonis went to Clare’s apartment building and talked to the super. He remembered Clare’s leave-taking very vividly, mostly because it took place so quickly, and he didn’t deal with Clare face to face. In fact, the super doesn’t remember seeing Clare at all after the first week in November.”
“Did he usually see her?”
“Yes. She lived at the Waverly on College Avenue. It’s not one of those vast, soulless places. The super saw Clare most mornings when she came back from her run. He says what everyone says. Clare was pleasant but she kept to herself. He also says he was surprised that Clare never knocked at his door to say goodbye. He thought they were friends.”
“Was the lease up?”
“It was a sublet. The original tenant came back on the first of January. Clare’s rent had been paid until December 31.”
“Smooth as silk,” I said.
“Yes,” Maggie said. “Someone arranged for a moving company to come in and pack for Clare – everything, right down to the toilet paper on the roll, the super said.”
“Where did Clare’s furniture get shipped?”
“A warehouse in Vancouver. Joanne, it’s still there. Clare’s things were never claimed.”
I felt the last small wisp of hope escape. “Have you told the police?”
“Yes, and we think it’s time we told the partners at Falconer Shreve what we know. They think they’ve pulled this off. We have to show them that they haven’t – that we’re carrying out our own investigation and that, unlike Inspector Kequahtooway, we can’t be bribed.”
My spirits sank. “You think that’s what happened, that someone at Falconer Shreve paid the inspector to shut down the investigation?”
Maggie made no attempt to check the asperity in her voice. “Do you have a better explanation? Anyway, it’s obvious that someone at Falconer Shreve knows something. They’ve got a firewall of administrative assistants and juniors at their office. We’re thinking that if we come out to Lawyers’ Bay, we can go for a walk on the beach, make ourselves conspicuous. Then maybe someone who needs a chance to talk will realize they can talk to us. What do you think?”
I remembered the calm determination of Clare Mackey’s face in her graduation portrait. “I think it’s worth a shot,” I said. “And, Maggie, why don’t you give Anne Millar a call and tell her what you’re planning to do? She might want to be a part of it.”
Maggie sighed. “Good idea. I’ll need her number.”
I gave Maggie Anne’s number. “I guess the next step is to decide when you’re coming. Zack’s been working from his cottage and Blake and Delia both drive out after work. So I guess you can pick your evening.”
“How about tomorrow around seven?”
“Tomorrow’s fine,” I said.
“Thanks for helping, Joanne. I know that Clare is just a name to you, but she was a decent human being.”
“That’s reason enough,” I said.
CHAPTER
10
I dressed with more than usual care for my evening with Zack Shreve. I was under no illusions about the motive behind his dinner invitation. From the night that he manoeuvred his chair into the gazebo bent on discovering and discrediting what Chris Altieri told me, Zack had his sights trained on me. He wasn’t sure what I knew or where I fit into the picture, but he wasn’t about to let me disappear from his range of vision. Now I had my own reasons for establishing rapport. So when Zack called from his car to say he was out front, I smoothed the mauve-grey silk of my favourite summer shirt and slacks, freshened my lipstick, and took a deep breath. It seemed entirely possible that, to quote Bette Davis’s stinging appraisal, we were in for a bumpy ride.
We got off to a good start. Seated behind the wheel of his white Jaguar, Zack could have been a
GQ
cover: great tan; jacket, slacks, and shirt in coordinated shades of taupe and coffee; dark hair still curling damply from the shower. He leaned across and opened the door on the passenger side. “You look sensational,” he said.
I slid in beside him. “You’re looking pretty tasty yourself,” I said. “Shall we get started?”
The lake on which Lawyers’ Bay was situated was one of a quartet known as the Calling Lakes, which wound through the Qu’Appelle Valley. The Stone House restaurant was on the lake next to ours. Zack had put the top down on his convertible, and we drove to the restaurant through the shimmer of heat in the colour-drenched world of high summer.
On the way there, Zack told me that the Stone House had once been the summer home of a wealthy American who had fallen in love with the history and legends of the Qu’Appelle Valley. Fired by tales of buffalo runs, the American had built his house not on the lake, but far above it at a point where a man could have stood and watched the buffalo pour like a mighty and endless river over the hills around him. The view from the restaurant was reputed to be spectacular, but the road there was steep and filled with hairpin turns, and as Zack negotiated them, my nerves were on full alert.
“Without setting foot in this place, I can already see one reason why it’s doomed,” I said. “Don’t restaurants count on alcohol sales for a hefty source of their revenues?”
“They do,” Zack said. “I’ve already decided I’m going to have one perfect martini and switch to water.”
“You shouldn’t have to be the designated driver just because you’re the man,” I said. “We’ll flip a coin.”
“Let’s hear it for gender parity,” Zack said. “If I win the toss, I get to drink as much as I like, and you get your way with my Jaguar and me.”
“I can live with that,” I said.
“Then you’re on,” Zack said as he pulled into the empty parking lot in front of the restaurant.
We were the only clients at the Stone House. The manner of the young woman who ushered us to our table in front of the window was as welcoming as the bright sunflowers hand-painted on her sleeveless shift, but her face was drawn and her eagerness to please brought tightness to my throat.
“Welcome,” she said. “I’m Marian Doherty, and my husband and I own the Stone House. I know you’re short of time, so I’ll bring the menus and your martinis.”
When Marian left, I turned to Zack. “You ordered for me when you made the reservation?” I said.
“Working on the assumption that Ultimate waits for no man, that’s exactly what I did. If you don’t care for your drink, reorder. We’ll dump the martini on the potted plant. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” I said.
Marian returned with the martinis and the menus. One sip and I knew the potted plant was safe. The martini was sublime. The food offerings were even better: homegrown and imaginative.
“Great menu,” I said.
Marian beamed. “While we were renovating this place we planned our menus for an entire year. That was one of the really fun parts.”
Zack put down his menu. “Do you need time to mull?” he asked me.
“No,” I said. “Pickerel cheeks are one of God’s great gifts to this province.”
“So are rabbits,” Zack said. “I’m going to have the braised bunny.”
“With a side order of carrot sticks?” I asked.
Marian laughed. “If you two want to take your drinks and wander around while we get your meals, you’d make us very happy. We’re really proud of this place.”
After she left, Zack turned to me. “Care to wander? It’s not as if we’d be disturbing anybody.”
The Dohertys had done everything right. The hardwood floors gleamed; the deep chintz-upholstered chairs in front of the fireplace offered a seductive invitation to curl up and dream; the garden roses at the centre of each table were dewy, and the unmatched plates and cutlery on the snowy linen tablecloths evoked memories of family dinners generations ago. Everything was flawless, but Zack and I were the only paying customers in sight.
“In the best of all possible worlds, this place would work,” I said.
Zack widened his eyes. “Whatever made you believe this was the best of all possible worlds? Come on, let’s go back to our table and flip that coin. I’m feeling lucky, and I could use another martini.”
Zack won the coin toss, and when his martini came he offered me a sip. When I shook my head, he frowned. “You’re going to be eating, and you won’t be behind the wheel for an hour and a half. I’m sure you could even have a glass of wine with impunity.”
“I’ll stick to mineral water,” I said. “This morning someone with whom I share a surname told me he got into a lot of trouble using that logic.”
“The Ultimate player?”
I nodded.
“So does he need a lawyer?”
“No. He’s in the clear.”
“Good. Then tell me about the game. Am I going to like it?”
“You’ll love it,” I said. “You’re combative by nature. It’s a cross between basketball and football but non-contact, played with a Frisbee. There are two teams, seven players each. In the
RUFDC
, the teams have to have both women and men.”
“I’m in favour of that,” Zack said. “What’s the
RUFDC?”
“The Regina Ultimate Flying Disc Club,” I said.
“Sounds Trekky.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth,” I said. “Ultimate is about playing hard and not whining. The object of the game is to score goals. The thrower isn’t allowed to take any steps, so the only way to move the disc is by passing. Any time a pass is incomplete, intercepted, knocked down, or sent out-of-bounds, the opposing team immediately gets possession. You score a goal by passing the disc to a teammate in the end zone of the opposing team.”
“You’ve watched a few games, then?”
“And been in a few,” I said. “Every so often if a team is short a female player, I’m the desperation draft.”
Zack smiled. “That’s flattering.”
“It’s annihilating,” I said. “Those kids are in phenomenal shape. The last time I played, I had to mainline Ben-Gay for a week.”
Our meals came and Zack and I talked of other things – music, travel, past adventures – the stuff of first dates. We both kept an anxious eye on the road outside. No cars came.
“I think the six months you gave the Dohertys may have been optimistic,” I said.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Zack said. “If they can’t pay their suppliers they won’t make it till Labour Day.”
“Hard to watch your dream turn to ashes,” I said.
“Isn’t that what dreams do?” Zack said. “Marian and her husband will be tougher next time.”
“And less hopeful and idealistic,” I said. “Disillusionment is a terrible thing. It hardens the heart. I hate to think of that young woman with the sunflowers on her dress turning into a cynic.”
Zack put down his fork. “I hate to think of it, too. That’s why I suggested we come to the Stone House.”
“So Chris was right,” I said. “You’re one of the dreamers. The night of the barbecue he called you Don Quixote.”
“I thought Chris knew me better than that,” Zack said. “I never undertake a quest unless I’m sure I’m going to succeed. And I don’t dream impossible dreams.”
“But you do dream.”
“Everybody dreams. Wise people know when to cut their losses. At one point in my life I wanted to be a baseball player. Obviously, that didn’t work out, so I became a lawyer.”
“It can’t have been that simple,” I said.
“It wasn’t,” Zack said. “But I didn’t have a choice.”
“What happened?”
Zack turned his gaze so that he was looking not at me but at the driveway to the Stone House. “One spring afternoon I was on my way back from ball practice, and a rich drunk ran a light. I was in the middle of the road at the time. I was ten years old. When my mother got the letter from the rich drunk’s insurance company offering her five thousand dollars if she’d sign a full release, she dropped to her knees on our kitchen floor and thanked God for his many blessings. I imagine when my mother hand-delivered the signed release to the insurance company, their lawyers offered up a few prayers of thanksgiving themselves.”
I reached across the table and covered Zack’s hand with mine. The move was instinctive, but Zack was clearly taken aback. He stared at our hands as if they were something apart from us. Then he looked at me hard. “You know how to get a good vibe going, Ms. Kilbourn. Suddenly, I wish that I could spend the whole evening just sitting here holding hands with you.”
“I’d like that too,” I said. “But it’s getting late.”
Zack motioned to Marian for the check, then he leaned towards me. “For the record, I had a great time tonight.”
“For the record,” I said, “the evening’s not over.”
We left the restaurant together but, instead of going straight to the car, Zack moved his chair to the edge of the empty parking lot. I followed him.
“No use putting it off,” I said. “At some point you’re going to have to hand me the keys and slide into the passenger seat.”
“I have absolute confidence in you,” Zack said. “But this view always knocks me out.”
“It is amazing,” I said. I slid my hand along the back of Zack’s chair and touched his shoulder.
He looked up at me. “The good vibes keep on coming,” he said.
“So they do,” I said.
On the highway below us, cars moved purposefully, taking people out to the cottage for the night or into Fort Qu’Appelle for a movie or a meal. But the lake beyond the road was glass, and the hills around us were solid and constant. Even at the crest of the hill where we watched and waited, no wind blew.
“This is such a beautiful part of the country,” Zack said. “Nights like this make you understand the Twenty-third psalm – still waters and green pastures.”
“And the Valley of the Shadow of Death is nowhere to be seen,” I said.
“Do I detect a switching of gears?”
“Yes,” I said. “Chris’s death and all the ugliness that seems to have come in its wake are never far away.”
“Specifically?”
“Some friends of Clare Mackey’s are coming out to Lawyers’ Bay tomorrow night.”
“And their purpose in coming is …?”
“They want the partners at Falconer Shreve to know that they’re not buying the story that Clare left for a better job in Vancouver. They also want you to know they’ve gone to the police about Clare, and they’re doing their own investigation. They’re hoping one of you will talk to them.”
“Quite an agenda,” Zack said. “How come you’re telling me?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.”
Zack stroked my hand. “I appreciate that,” he said. “Truly, I do.” He reached into his pocket and handed me his car keys. “You’re in the driver’s seat,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The Regina Ultimate Flying Disc Club tournament was being played just outside Fort Qu’Appelle on the kind of grassy, low-maintenance field reserved for T-ball or games of pickup. There were benches for the opposing teams, some rudimentary bleachers, and a small playground close enough to the bleachers for a parent to keep one eye on a child swinging on the monkey bars and the other eye on a child rounding the bases. There were also bushes, mosquitoes, blankets, bug spray, and the air of pleasant lassitude that settles on spectators at an outdoor event on an evening in cottage country.
I had given Zack a thumbnail sketch of the rules of Ultimate, but words could not describe the game’s poetry. To watch men and women who were more perfect than they would ever again be in their lives push themselves to their limits in the honeyed golden light of a fading day was to understand what it meant to be young, strong, fearless, and mortal. I’d once told Angus that Ultimate always made me think of the poetry of A.E. Housman. My son had looked baffled and slightly annoyed, but I knew that some day he would understand, more than most, the poignancy of Housman’s line about all those early-laurelled heads.
Zack had positioned himself by the bench where Angus’s team, Blackjack, had set up. He was watching the game intently – not cheering, just observing. Occasionally, he’d lean close to one of the kids on Blackjack and ask a question. He seemed perfectly at ease, as if there were nothing more pressing in his life than mastering the intricacies of a new sport.
Zack and I hadn’t talked on our way back from the restaurant, but our silence had been companionable rather than awkward, and when I’d pulled up to park behind the ball diamond, he had leaned across and kissed me. It was a good and serious kiss with the lingering effects a good and serious kiss always has. I wanted more, but I could hear my daughter calling, and so Zack and I had touched fingers and gone our separate ways.
As soon as I found a place on the bleachers, Delia Wainberg joined me. Her hair was spiky, there was the faintest dusting of blush on her pale cheeks, and her outfit – black shorts, a white T-shirt, and white runners – was youthful and flattering.
“How’re you doing?” she said.
“Fine,” I said. “And obviously you’re blooming.”
“Thanks for noticing,” she said. “I’ve decided Chris wouldn’t want me to disintegrate, so I’m making an effort.” She waggled her fingers theatrically. “No cigarette,” she said. “I’ve quit smoking – again.” Her voice made one of its appealing squeaky trills. “I haven’t had one all day, but I’m not to be trusted. If I come up with some phony-baloney excuse to leave, sink your teeth into my leg and don’t let go.”