Authors: Gail Bowen
Gracie watched her mother walk away, then wandered over to her father. Together, they tilted their heads to follow the trajectory of a pink and purple rocket. It was so spectacular that Gracie reached out exuberantly to hug her father.
“Cool,” they said in unison; then laughed at the moment.
“Why can’t she ever just see how nice everything is?” Gracie asked.
Blake shrugged and gave his daughter a rueful smile. “That,” he said, “is a question I’ve asked myself for years.”
As always, the fireworks were over too soon. The last star arced across the sky, the last lovely parabola of light faded, and the night was suddenly dark and cheerless. For a beat, we stood uncertainly, breathing in air wisped with smoke and pungent with bug spray. Then people began to fold blankets, collapse chairs, and say their goodbyes.
“Why does it have to be over so soon?” Taylor asked plaintively.
“Do you like riddles?” Chris Altieri’s voice startled me. I had no idea he’d slipped away from Delia and joined us. He’d caught Taylor by surprise, too.
“Where did you come from?” she asked.
“I wanted to stand where I could get the best view of the big finish,” he said.
“It was neat, eh?” Taylor said.
“Very neat,” Chris said. “But you didn’t answer my question. Do you like riddles?”
“Sure – as soon as someone tells me the answer,” Taylor said. “My brother’s a lot better at stuff like that than I am.”
“Okay,” Chris said. “Here’s one to try on your brother. What three words can make you sad when you’re happy and happy when you’re sad?”
Taylor scrunched her forehead, gave it her best shot, and abandoned hope. The entire process was accomplished in less than a minute. “I give up,” she said.
“I give up,” Chris repeated thoughtfully. “Nope, those are not the three words I had in mind.”
Taylor rewarded him with a laugh. “So what is the answer?”
Chris dropped to his knees so he could look at my daughter face to face. “The three words are ‘Nothing lasts forever.’ Pretty good, huh?”
“Yeah,” Taylor said. “I bet even Angus won’t be able to figure that one out.” Suddenly her interest was diverted. She leaned close to Chris so she could see his face more clearly. “You’ve got a cut,” she said. She extended her finger tentatively, touched his eyebrow, then examined her fingertip.
“It’s blood.”
Chris touched his eyebrow and checked his finger. “So it is,” he said.
“What happened?” Taylor asked.
“I walked into a fist,” Chris said.
Scuffles that ended in a bruise or a cut were not outside Taylor’s realm of experience. “Well, you should clean it up and put some Polysporin on it,” she said. “It makes it heal faster.”
“Sounds like good advice,” Chris said. “Thanks.” He turned to me. “Are you an early riser?”
“My dog is. He and I run on the beach at five-thirty.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“I’d like that,” I said. I stepped closer. “Despite that accidental walking into a fist, you seem to be doing better.”
Chris grinned and shrugged. “Nothing lasts forever. Remember?”
The cottage we were staying in was at the tip of the east arm of the horseshoe that was Lawyers’ Bay. Built in the 1950s by Kevin Hynd’s parents, Harriet and Russell, it was a dwelling with a thousand charms, and that night after Angus headed for his room above the boathouse and Leah and Taylor had gone to bed, I entered my bedroom with a sense of homecoming. I slept in the bed Harriet and Russell had shared, surrounded by photos of other summers at the lake and shelves of books containing their personal favourites: Virginia Woolf for her, Louis L’Amour for him. Everything I could wish for, yet that night as I slipped between the sun-fresh sheets, I couldn’t sleep. The windows were open, but no breeze stirred the filmy curtains. Oppressed by heavy air and sharp-edged memories, I tossed, turned, and finally picked up my pillow and headed for the screened porch.
Rectangles of light from the other cottages around the bay pierced the darkness. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one struggling with sleeplessness. The opening notes of Bill Evans’s incandescent “Waltz for Debbie” drifted from Zack Shreve’s cottage. As I listened, I took the measure of my neighbours’ blessings: money, success, health, and for troubled nights, a law partner who played piano with fluid beauty. Yet somehow this wasn’t enough. I carried my pillow to the couch, lay down, closed my eyes, and pondered the universal truth that lay behind Gracie Falconer’s question to her father: Why couldn’t people just see how nice everything was?
I don’t know how long I slept before I was jerked awake by a beam of light and the screech of tires peeling along the gravel road that led past our cottage to the boat launch. My first thought was that some kids had fuelled their Canada Day celebrations with one too many kegs, but the explanation didn’t wash. Lawyers’ Bay was a gated community. Nobody got in but us.
My heart pounded as I waited for a sign that the wayward car had headed home. But I heard nothing. When the splash came, there was no mistaking its significance. The car hit the water with a dull thud, and life moved into fast-forward. I jumped up and headed for the lake. It wasn’t long before Angus caught up with me. Standing on the road in his jockey shorts, my son didn’t look like a hero, but he had a hero’s coolness. “I called 911, Mum, but it’s going to take them a while to get out here. You and I will just have to do what we can.”
The red roof of the car was still visible when Angus and I arrived on the scene.
“That looks like Chris Altieri’s
MGB,”
Angus said. There was no time to check out his assessment. The vehicle had apparently built up enough momentum to sail through the air before it hit. There was a sharp drop in the level of the lake bottom about ten metres from shore. The car had reached that point, and the dark waters were greedily swallowing their prize.
Before I could stop him, Angus dove off the dock and swam towards the spot where the car had gone under. In a heartbeat, he vanished too. Frozen with fear, I stared at the place where he’d disappeared.
When – finally – he surfaced, I could hear the panic in his voice. “I can’t get to him, Mum.”
“Is it Chris?” I asked.
“I guess so. I don’t know. I need help. I can’t open the door. Maybe if you spell me off …”
I didn’t hesitate. I threw off my robe and dove in. The water had a familiar fishy-weedy smell, and in one of those synaptic leaps that fracture logic, I remembered another lake in another time when my friend Sally Love and I, poised on the cusp of adolescence, would go skinny-dipping, thrilled as cold water surrounded the new contours of our changing bodies.
That night, the only thrill was of terror. The world below was murky, and I could find my way only by touch. When a weed slithered against my leg, my fear was primal. Finally, my hand found metal. Blindly, I sought a handle. Like a beginner learning Braille, I kept moving my fingers hoping to unlock the mystery. All I could feel was impenetrable steel. Finally, lungs on fire, I shot to the surface, and Angus went under again. We alternated dives until, exhausted and frustrated, I faced the truth. When Angus ducked to go back under, I grabbed his shoulder. “No,” I said. “No more. It’s over.”
We swam to shore and clambered up the boat launch to the dubious safety of dry land. Shivering and breathless, we gulped air and stared ahead. In the distance a siren’s shriek pierced the night. Help was on its way. I inched closer to my son.
Above us the uncaring moon moved through the sky, drawing a bright ribbon of light across the smooth expanse of water that covered all that remained of Christopher Altieri. The man of water had gone home.
CHAPTER
2
From the moment I met her, I had been a fan of Angus’s girlfriend, Leah Drache. She was smart, funny, and original – a young woman with a blond bob and shiny brown eyes who charted her own course, but embraced anyone who chose to travel with her. The night of the drowning she was invaluable. The paramedics had convinced the police to let Angus and me go back to our cottage to towel off and get into dry clothes before they questioned us. Leah didn’t hover, but she knew what we needed, and she offered it: hot tea with plenty of sugar, the softest towels, the thickest sweatshirts and socks. She seated everyone in the kitchen, the room farthest away from the room in which Taylor, innocent of the night’s events, dreamed her summer dreams.
The
RCMP
confirmed my fear that the driver of the
MGB
was Chris Altieri, but beyond revealing his identity, they were tight-lipped. The officers who took our statements were smart enough to simply let us talk. They were professionals who recognized human limits, and they knew my son and I were on the edge. They also knew where to find us when the need for tough and close questioning arose.
After they left, Angus stood up, wrapped himself more tightly in his towel, and said he was leaving for his room over the boathouse. Leah was a woman who valued her space, and that summer she had opted for a room of her own in the cottage, but she loved my son and her tenderness as she reached for him brought a catch to my throat. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” she said. “I’ll come with you.” I went to my solitary bed envying them.
The physical exertion of the doomed recovery efforts had taken its toll, and I slept deeply. When I awoke, light was pooling on my bedroom floor and the scent of roses hung in the air. For a sliver of time, I was blissful; then with the suddenness of a cloud blocking the sun, Chris Altieri’s face flashed into my consciousness. It took an act of will to plant my feet on the floor and take the first step that would begin the new day.
When I came into the kitchen, Leah was at the sink, rinsing dishes. She was wearing khaki shorts and a sleeveless white cotton blouse that showed off her tan. There was something achingly lovely about the way in which she performed this most commonplace of tasks, and I was grateful to her for offering me an anchor to moor me to the workaday world.
She poured us both juice. “Rose Lavallee picked Taylor up about ten minutes ago. She thought the girls shouldn’t have to see police all over the place, so she’s taking them to Standing Buffalo. She’s bringing them back at three-thirty.” Leah handed me my glass. “Her sister’s going to teach them how to knit.”
“Our neighbours seem to take care of everything,” I said.
Leah’s brow furrowed with concern. “I’m sorry, Jo. I should have listened to Rose. She said I should wake you up to see if it was okay for Taylor to go, but I figured that, after last night, you’d want to sleep.”
“You were right,” I said, relenting. “And it’ll be handy having a knitter around the house. This family goes through a lot of scarves and mitts.” I sipped my juice. “How’s Angus?”
“He seems okay,” she said. “I’m glad we’ve got the grand opening of Coffee Row today – keep him distracted.”
“Your elderly gents are not going to lack conversational topics,” I said.
Leah’s smile was thin. “Half the town is probably out there already, sitting on the picnic benches, trading grisly details.”
Coffee Row was Leah’s answer to a quandary that had developed the week she and Angus started managing the Point Store. Stan Gardiner still lived over the business, and whenever the bell tinkled, announcing that a customer had come through the front door, Stan came down to visit. His continuing presence created a problem in both diplomacy and logistics.
The number of items cottagers believed essential to their existence had grown exponentially since the 1940s, when Stan’s father had opened his store, but the square-footage inside the building hadn’t increased. Despite Stan’s best efforts, stock teetered on shelves and spilled onto the ubiquitous and universally despised display racks. Stock and fixtures weren’t the only problems. A pitched battle had developed between the old men who had been meeting in front of the pop cooler at the Point Store since they were pups, and the sleek young matrons who presided over the huge summer homes that crowded the lakeshore. In a phrase, the issue was squatters’ rights: the old men were for them, the young matrons were against them.
The situation into which Leah and Angus walked was fraught, but Leah had been quick to propose a solution. Her idea was simple: set up a few picnic tables under the old cottonwood trees at the side of the store, offer Stan’s friends refreshments, and give the sleek matrons who were ready to pay top dollar for free-range chickens and anything labelled organic a clean, well-lit place in which to shop. Stan himself had selected the name for the new place. It would, he said, be called Coffee Row, because there was no point sticking a fancy name on something when you could call it what it was. The news that Coffee Row would be opening the Tuesday after the long weekend had been the number-one topic among the Point Store’s customers for days. Chris Altieri’s death meant there would be another story.
My son’s girlfriend had a rare ability to scope out a situation, and that morning she was quick to take my measure. “I’m assuming you’d rather not talk about last night,” she said.
“Anything but,” I said. “Is everything under control for the grand opening?”
Leah pursed her lips. “Well, we’re getting there. But I could use a little help with the refreshments. Since it’s a special day, we’re serving sandwiches: bologna and egg salad. Speaking of which …” She went to the fridge and removed a large ceramic bowl heaped with hard-boiled eggs. “Time for me to get crackin’.”
We groaned in unison. “Nothing beats egg humour,” I said.
Leah set the bowl on the table between us, and we began.
I had just finished peeling the last egg when Angus came in. He lolled against the doorway with his face screwed in an expression of distaste. “This place smells like farts. What are you guys doing?”
“Making lunch,” I said, holding the bowl out to him.
Angus grabbed an egg. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m starving.”
“Got time to give your old mother a hug?” I asked. Leah took the bowl, and I drew my son close, savouring the coolness of his body and the dampness of his hair. Last night had been a sharp reminder that the threads linking us to those we love are fragile.
“It’s okay, Mum,” Angus said, breaking away. “I’m still here.”
“Which is great,” Leah said, “except that you should have been at the store twenty minutes ago. Got to wipe down those picnic tables, babe. Got to put on the oilcloth.”
“Oilcloth?” I said.
“Mr. Gardiner had a bolt of it in his barn,” Leah said. “It’s brown-and-white checked – very retro.”
“In that case, I’ll love it,” I said. “I’m pretty retro myself.”
Leah picked up a pastry cutter and began moving it smartly through the bowl of hard-boiled eggs. “Come to the opening,” she said. “Free food, and all the rotten coffee you can drink. I wanted to get beans from Roca Jacks, but Mr. Gardiner says his friends have been drinking floor sweepings all their lives and the good stuff would just confuse them.”
It was a tempting invitation, but after Leah and Angus left, the energy seeped out of me. Heavy-limbed and gritty-eyed, I had the sense I was inhabiting a body that had been punished hard and long. As I sat at the kitchen table, staring at my coffee, my Bouvier, Willie, nudged me. His message was clear. We usually hit the beach by 5:45 at the latest. We were very, very late.
Willie followed me to the bedroom and stared as I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. When I reached for my runners, he began to circle, then he directed me to his leash and the door. Bouviers do not rate high on the dog-intelligence scale, but when it came to his run, Willie fired up all the circuits.
It was a hot morning with a haze that hinted at the possibility of rain. Willie barked at the birds chilling out in Harriet Hynd’s bird bath, then dragged me towards the horseshoe of beach that surrounded the bay. We were both committed to the routine, but it appeared Willie’s dedication was of a deeper order than mine. The last sight I wanted to see on that tranquil July morning was the spot where Chris Altieri had died, but neither death nor trauma deterred Willie. As he had since we arrived, my dog headed straight for the dock beside the boat ramp.
The vehicles used in the investigation had chewed up the beach badly, and the dock was muddy and lashed with weeds, but the lake itself was as flat and benign as a plate. My throat tightened. I jerked Willie’s leash. “Time to go,” I said.
Running helped. It was a haiku day, worthy of seventeen syllables of celebration, and my endorphins were pumping. Survival seemed possible until I spotted the gazebo. I froze. Willie cocked his head, awaiting the next development. I reached down and gave him a reassuring pat; then, obeying an impulse I didn’t understand, I led him along the beach towards the overhang of land where the gazebo had been built.
One of Noah Wainberg’s most eloquent pieces hung like a figure on a ship’s prow from the base of the structure. The carving was of a woman, seemingly a prisoner, her hands tied behind her back, her legs long and graceful, her breasts full, her face gentle but filled with an ancient and private sorrow. I had jogged past the carving for a week, but I had never seen it from this angle, and it was compelling. I reached out and touched the curve of her arm. Sun-heated, the wood was warm as flesh.
“Noah used my body as his model for the piece.” The voice was husky and low. It was Lily Falconer’s. I turned to face her. She’d been jogging, too. Her face was slick with sweat and her long hair had come loose. It fell against her shoulders – brush strokes of black against the glowing bronze of her skin. Her shorts and halter were the colour of pale jade, but they too were sweat-stained. “I need to talk to you,” she said.
I gestured towards the gazebo. “Maybe we should go in there, get out of the sun.”
She shook her head vehemently. “No. Let’s just go down to the beach.” She reached down and snapped off Willie’s leash. “Your dog wants to play in the water.”
Free at last, Willie bounded into the lake. Outmanoeuvred, I followed him.
When we came to the beach, Lily dropped to the sand and lay on her back, arms flung wide, palms up, legs sprawled, eyes closed. She was absolutely without self-consciousness. As I looked at her toned body and endless legs, I knew that if I had a body like hers, I wouldn’t be timid either.
She didn’t waste time on preamble. “I heard that you and your son tried to save Chris. We’re all grateful for that.”
“I wish the outcome had been different,” I said.
“If wishes were horses, then beggars could ride.” There was an edge in Lily’s voice, the pragmatist correcting the dreamer. “Chris is dead, Joanne. All we can do now is keep things from getting worse.”
A seagull swooped down and snagged something from the water. Willie, unaware that his mission was futile, paddled to the spot where the bird had been.
“I agree,” I said. “Has something happened?”
Lily pushed herself up on her elbows and met my gaze. “There’s a police officer named Alex Kequahtooway who wants to talk to you. From what I understand, you won’t need to be introduced.”
Her announcement had the force of a punch in the stomach. She was right. Inspector Alex Kequahtooway and I didn’t need an introduction. For three years, he had been my lover, and our parting had not been amicable.
“No,” I said. “The inspector and I are acquainted.”
“Then you know you can trust him.”
“I know I can trust him professionally,” I said.
A hint of a smile passed her lips. “Well, that’s all that matters here, isn’t it?”
“Lily, what is it exactly that you want me to do?”
“Tell the truth,” she said. “Answer the questions you’re asked but don’t introduce anything extraneous. Alex says –”
“Alex?”
I said.
“We go way back.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “That sun’s hot.”
“Maybe we should move.”
In a movement as fluid as an athlete’s, Lily stood up. For a beat, she stared at the horizon. “No, we’re finished here. Just remember that none of us knows for sure just what happened last night. Don’t say anything that will muddy the waters.”
I scrambled to my feet. “I’m pretty good at keeping my focus,” I said.
Lily’s grey eyes bored into mine. “Good,” she said. “That’ll make it easier all around, won’t it?” She picked up the leash and whistled. Willie had not distinguished himself at obedience school, but he came to Lily immediately. She rubbed his head, snapped on the collar, and offered me the leash. “Chris’s death was an accident,” she said. “A terrible, terrible accident.” Her tone was without emotion – like that of a schoolgirl reciting by rote words that were beyond her comprehension.
When Willie and I got back to the cottage, Alex Kequahtooway’s silver Audi was in the driveway. I swore softly. I was depleted, without resources to examine a night that was still a fresh wound. There was something else, and it did not reflect well on me. The accident and its aftermath had battered me to the core, but apparently my vanity had survived. As I walked by the Audi, the rear-view mirror was in easy proximity, but I didn’t bend down to give myself a quick onceover. There was no point. I knew I looked like hell.
Alex was sitting in one of the rockers on the front porch. I hadn’t seen him since Christmas. He’d been involved in a difficult case then, and I’d chalked up his pallor and weight loss to overwork and stress. But the man in the rocker was suffering from something beyond too many late nights and too much caffeine. His eyes were closed and his head was resting against the wicker back of the rocker. His lethargy was a shock. Alex had always been driven, a dynamo who could grab a few hours’ sleep and function well. That morning, he looked as if something had hollowed him out. I called his name.
When he heard my voice, he opened his eyes and then raised his head slowly. “You’re okay?” he said.