A Colder Kind of Death (16 page)

“Bingo,” I said. I repeated the number and wrote it down. “Thanks, Lorraine. Ian used to say he could always count on you to come through.”

“Anytime, Jo,” she said softly. “Anytime.”

My heart was pounding as I dialled Henry’s number. There were two rings. Then the operator’s voice: “Your call cannot be completed as dialled. Please check the listing again, or call your operator for assistance.” I hung up and looked again at the number. It could be long distance. I dialled one and tried the number again. This time I got through.

A young man answered. In the background, country music blared.

“Yeah,” he said, not unfriendly.

“Could I speak to Henry?” I asked.

“There’s no Henry here, lady.”

I felt my heart sink. “He’s an older man. Ukrainian.”

He sounded kind but exasperated. “Lady, there’s three of us share this house. None of us are Henry, none of us are older, and none of us are Ukrainian.”

“Wait,” I said. “How long have you had this number?”

“Three years.” He started to hang up.

“Where are you?” I said. “Where do you live?”

“Lady …” His voice was edgy.

“Just tell me the name of the city, please. It’s important.”

He laughed. “It’s no city, lady. This is Chaplin, Saskatchewan, population 400.”

I felt a rush. Chaplin. I should have known.

I had one more phone call to make. I dialled Beating Heart and got the machine. “Someone would be happy to help you during regular office hours which were …” I hung up and opened the phone book at the M’s. Tess Malone’s home number wasn’t listed. I dialled Beating Heart again and left Tess a message. “I need to talk to you about Henry,” I said, and I left my name.

The phone rang again just as I was sliding the chops under the broiler. It was Jill.

“Did Taylor ask specifically for a female cat or was that just a whimsy of yours?”

“If I picked out a male, don’t tell me,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, and the line was silent.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “Tell me.”

“You chose a male,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“I just lifted his tail and looked: three dots, not one. Next
time, take me with you.”

“There won’t be a next time,” I said, gloomily.

She laughed. “See you tomorrow.”

After supper, Hilda took Taylor down to the library to return her books. I asked Angus to wrap presents while I made the birthday cake.

“What did we get her?” he asked.

“A case of cat food. A cat dish. A Garfield T-shirt and a book of cat cartoons from
The New Yorker.”

“Did we also get her a cat?” he said.

“A little ginger male. The man at the Humane Society says he’s part Persian. What do you think about getting another pet?”

“I think it’s amazing. Everybody knows how you are with cats. It’s cool that you got one for T.” He snapped his fingers. “Really cool. Okay, where’s the wrapping paper?”

An hour later, when Taylor and Hilda came back, the presents were wrapped and the cakes were made. Taylor looked into the flowerpots critically.

“How did you make the dirt?”

“The way the recipe says to make it. A bag of Oreos pulverized in the food processor.”

“And the mud?”

“Chocolate pudding and Dream Whip.”

“And the jelly worms are in there?”

“All $5.27 worth.”

She nodded. “Should I bring Jack in tonight or wait till tomorrow?”

“You’re bringing Jack in?”

“For the party. For the centre of the table.”

“T, he’s getting pretty saggy. There are other things you could have as the centrepiece.”

“Like what?”

“Angus had a clown head made out of a cabbage one year and an octopus another time. They were both pretty cute. And when Mieka was about your age, she had a doll with a cake skirt. Peter had a firehat three years in a row. You can pretty much use anything.”

“Good,” she said. “We’ll use Jack.” She leaned over and kissed me goodnight. The issue was settled.

Hilda was out with friends for the evening. After I tucked in Taylor, I made myself a pot of Earl Grey, sat down at the dining-room table, and thought of all the birthday parties that had been celebrated around it. I’d been a young mother when Mieka and Peter had had their parties. Children who had sat at this table singing “Happy Birthday” to my children were now old enough to have children themselves. And I was forty-nine. Not young.

Ian must have wasted a hundred rolls of film taking pictures of the kids’ birthdays. He always managed to snap the shot at just the wrong time. We had a drawer full of photos of blurred children, of children with satanic red eyeballs, and of me, looking not maternal but menacing, as I poised the knife above the birthday cake. Memories. But there were other memories. Better ones. Memories of the times after the parties when Ian and I would clean up, pour a drink, cook a steak, and be grateful for another year of healthy kids.

When I went upstairs to get ready for bed, Rose was in Angus’s room sitting on the cape he had worn Hallowe’en night. I thought of the ginger cat, and went in and sat down on the floor next to her. I put my arms around her neck. “Changes for you tomorrow, old lady,” I said. Full of trust, she nuzzled me. “Just remember,” I said, “adversity makes us grow.” She stood up expectantly. “We’re not going anywhere tonight,” I said. I picked up the cape. “Except down to the basement to put this back. Look, it’s covered in dog hair.” I brushed off the cape and headed downstairs.

The trunk I’d taken the cape from Hallowe’en night was still open. I decided to check through the clothes inside to see if there was anything Peter or Angus could wear. I found a couple of sweaters and a pair of dress slacks that looked possible. I was sorting through a stack of sport shirts when I found the wallet. It was in a small bag, like a commercial Baggie, but of heavier plastic. The boys, never inspired in their choice of gifts, had given it to Ian that last Christmas. A young constable had brought the wallet, Ian’s keys, and his wedding ring back to me after the trial. The wedding ring was upstairs in my jewellery box, and I’d given the keys to Peter when he started driving. I didn’t remember putting the wallet in the trunk, but there was a lot I didn’t remember about those months after Ian died.

I undid the twist-tie on the bag and took out the wallet. In the upstairs hall, the grandfather clock chimed. I opened the wallet. The leather was still stiff, and the plastic photo case was pristine. Christmas afternoon Ian had made quite a show of cleaning out his old wallet and transferring everything worth transferring to the new one. The boys had been very pleased. I looked through the photo case. There wasn’t much there: Ian’s identification, some credit cards, the kids’ school pictures, Ian’s party membership, and one picture of all of us that I’d forgotten about. We’d been in Ottawa, taking turns snapping pictures of one another in front of the Parliament Buildings, when a young man asked if we’d like a family picture. It had turned out well. I looked at us, suntanned and smiling in our best summer clothes, and I could feel my throat tighten. I reached inside the plastic to pull the photo out. There was another picture behind it, and I slid it out too. I hadn’t seen this one before. It was a Santa Claus picture from a shopping mall.

A woman, very young, very pretty, was sitting on Santa’s knee, holding a baby up to the camera. On the back in
careful backhand, she had written: “He looks just like you. I love you. J.”

I’d been so anxious to make the pieces fit. Maybe, at last, they’d all fallen into place. Ian’s anger when I’d pressed him about what he was doing that last day. The old man who’d confronted him the night of the party. “Now I got no more daughter.” And this child. Crazily, I remembered my fortune in the barm brack Hallowe’en night. The tiny baby doll.

I looked at the child the girl was holding. “He looks just like you.” I tried to see the resemblance, but I couldn’t. The baby didn’t look like Ian; he just looked like a baby.

I put the picture into the pocket of my blue jeans. Then I slid the wallet back into its plastic bag, and carried it upstairs. I didn’t stop to put on boots. I plodded across the deep snow of the back yard, to our back gate, opened it, and walked down the lane to the garbage bin. I didn’t hesitate before I threw my husband’s wallet into the garbage.

The first thing I saw when I awoke the next morning was the picture on my nightstand. In the full light of morning, the woman seemed even younger and more lovely than she had the night before. I thought about the day ahead and felt the heaviness wash over me. Somehow I had to get through Taylor’s party. When I’d managed that, there was just the rest of my life to muddle through.

The phone was ringing when I stepped out of the shower. I grabbed a towel, tripped over Sadie and yelled at her so viciously that she ran out of the room. My coping mechanism seemed to have short-circuited.

My caller was Inspector Alex Kequahtooway.

“I know it’s early to phone, especially on a holiday,” he said, “but I have news.”

“Go ahead,” I said, and my voice sounded dead.

“It’s good news,” he added quickly. “You’re in the clear, Mrs. Kilbourn. The reservations clerk you talked to the night of the murder has had a chance to give her story some sober second thought. Now that she’s had time to reconsider, she realizes that when you left your name and address
for the lost and found, it must have been after 11:05, not at 11:00 as she previously told us.”

“It’s still just her word, isn’t it?” I said. “She could change her mind again.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “This time she has the hotel’s telephone records to keep her memory fresh. The records say that on the night of the murder, someone at the reservations desk made a long-distance call to Wolf Point, Montana, at 10:47. The call was not completed until 11:05. Now, the only connection between the Hotel Saskatchewan and Wolf Point, Montana, seems to be the reservations clerk’s boyfriend. He’s working at a western-wear store in Wolf Point.”

“That still leaves ten minutes,” I said dully. “I found the body at 11:15, and that’s when the police came.”

I could hear the edge in Inspector Kequahtooway’s voice. “That’s where we had a break, Mrs. Kilbourn. It turns out that somebody found the body before you did.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Another guest at the hotel. He’s been out of the country for a couple of weeks. When he read about the case in the paper, he got in touch right away. A good citizen. He says when he went to get his rental car to drive to the airport, he saw a woman lying by that old Buick in the parking lot. He says he remembers the time because he was in a hurry. It was 11:00.”

“Why didn’t he call for help?”

Alex Kequahtooway’s voice was impassive. “He had a plane to catch. It was dark. From where he was parked he couldn’t see the woman’s face. He thought she was, and I quote, ‘just another drunken Indian.’ ”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?”

“That the world is such a shitty place,” I said.

“It does have its moments, doesn’t it?” He paused. “Mrs. Kilbourn, are you ill? You don’t sound like yourself.”

“I’m not myself, Inspector,” I said. “But thanks for calling.” I hung up.

I was in the clear. I could stop asking questions. I could stop trying to make the pieces fit. Life could go back to normal. I looked at the picture of the young woman. She was wearing blue jeans and a white sweater. Against the cheap red suit of the mall Santa, her blond wavy hair seemed charged with life. Her face was serene. Her eyes, slightly upturned at the outer edge, looked steadily into the camera. The curve of her breasts behind the baby suggested fullness, and the flesh on her arms was taut with abundance. The baby she held in those arms was like her, solemn, plump, and beautiful.

“Not everybody trusts paintings, but people believe photographs.” That’s what Ansel Adams said. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. What truth would a photograph of me convey? My hair, still wet from the shower, was slick against my skull, and my face was pale and haggard. I was forty-nine years old. It wasn’t going to get any better. I pulled the towel tight around me. I wanted to vanquish that beautiful young woman with her lovely baby. I wanted to rip her picture into a dozen pieces and flush it down the toilet.

But even as I picked up the picture, I knew she couldn’t be vanquished. I had to know who she was. I had to know what she had meant to Ian. I had to know whether the child she held in her arms was his, and I had to know how she was connected to his death.

I reached for my jeans and a sweatshirt, changed my mind, and chose a soft wool skirt that always made me feel attractive, and a cashmere sweater the colour of a pomegranate. After I’d dressed, I sat down in front of my mirror and brushed my hair. Then, I picked up the foundation cream and began to smooth it over my face.

A thousand years ago, Hilda had said, “Follow the strands back to the place where they join. Of course, you’ll have to scrutinize your husband’s life, too.” Back then,
scrutinize
had seemed to suggest such a pitiless intrusion that I’d rejected the idea outright, but now I knew Hilda was right. I had to know the truth. I brushed the blush across the soft pads of my cheeks. “Chipmunk cheeks,” Taylor had said. The girl in the picture had great cheekbones, high and sloping. Who was she?

“This is between you and me, Ian,” I said aloud. And as soon as I heard the words, I knew they were true. No one but I should be part of this next phase of the investigation. I had to convince Hilda and Jill that, because the chase was over, life was back to normal. I dabbed the eyeshadow brush in sable brown and touched the corners of my eyelids.

If Ian hadn’t been the man I thought he was, no one else was going to know. We’d been married twenty years, and whatever that marriage meant to him, I wasn’t going to expose him. I picked up the mascara, leaned towards the mirror, and began darkening the ends of my eyelashes. There was something reassuring about seeing my eyes looking as they always had. I filled in my lips with colour, slid on my best gold bracelet, and put in my new gold hoop earrings.