A Colder Kind of Death (27 page)

“Of what?” I asked.

“Of what was going to happen next,” she said. The cat licked up the milk. Taylor took her bowl to the sink and ran the hot water on it. “Jo, I think we should go to that funeral today.”

“I don’t think so, T,” I said.

For a long time she didn’t say anything. When she turned her face was strained and white. “If you died, I’d want Jess there,” she said.

Three hours later, Taylor and I were walking up the centre aisle of Lakeview United Church. I’d been right about the crowd. I saw some familiar faces: Lorraine Bellegarde, Craig Evanson, a few people I knew from the Legislature, some members of the media, but most of the blond ash pews were empty. The band of mourners was small, too. Sylvie and Jane, and between them, Jess, looking small and sad in his new suit.

When I saw Jess, I thought of what Alex had told me about the police investigation. Everything they turned up had substantiated their theory that, for the last weeks of his life, Gary was a man possessed by his need to keep his son. The letter Kevin Tarpley had sent to Gary was in a box of unfiled correspondence Lorraine Bellegarde had packed when Gary had moved out of his office. Alex said the letter had been only three sentences long. Kevin had printed out Exodus 20:13 – the sixth Commandment: “Thou shalt not commit murder.” He had promised Gary that, if he asked Jesus to forgive him, he would gain eternal salvation. And then Kevin had written a final and fatal sentence in which he told Gary he could no longer let his son be raised by a man who
had sinned as Gary had sinned. There was a receipt from the private airline that had flown Gary to Prince Albert on Hallowe’en and brought him back to Nationtv in time to do the promotion for Howard’s dinner. There was a bank statement showing that Gary had withdrawn all the cash in his business account the day after Hallowe’en. The amount wasn’t large. Certainly, it was nowhere near the amount of money Maureen Gault had been flashing when she’d made the offer to buy Ray-elle’s beauty salon.

It had taken the police a while to find the source of Maureen’s bonanza. When they questioned the people Gary knew, a sad picture of Gary’s activities in the days before Maureen’s death emerged. He had gone to everyone he knew asking for money. He’d been so desperate he hadn’t even bothered to fabricate a story. He just said he was in trouble. Most of the people Gary had gone to had already bailed him out when he’d skimmed his legal accounts after Ian died, and they turned him down flat.

Only one person was willing to help, and her identity was no surprise to me. Lorraine Bellegarde owned a small house on Wallace Street. She had been proud of the fact that it was paid for “right down to the last nail,” but she had mortgaged it for Gary.

Alex had been the one to interview her, and her behaviour had baffled him. “She seems like such a sensible woman,” he’d said. “Do you think he just laid on the charm or what?” I told him that Lorraine had been around Gary long enough to be immune to his charm. Then I remembered the story of how Gary hadn’t let Lorraine get rid of the prostitutes who’d been using his car as pick-up point. “I guess she decided he deserved a hassle-free zone,” I’d said.

Alex had shaken his head in disgust. “What kind of guy would let a woman mortgage her house for him? He must have really been a piece of work.”

“He was that, all right,” I said. And we didn’t talk of the matter again.

In the church, Jess laid his head against his mother’s arm. The service was generic: the Lord’s prayer, the twenty-third Psalm, a few mournful hymns. The young minister spoke obliquely about the mysteries of the human heart and seemed relieved when he was finished.

So was I. Gary had been cremated, and, despite everything, the cloth-covered urn on the altar was painful to contemplate. When the minister said the closing prayer and invited us all to join the family in a reception room at the back of the church, Taylor looked at me expectantly. I shook my head. I’d had enough. When we came into the vestibule, Sylvie and Jane were talking to a man from the funeral home. I headed for the door, hoping Taylor and I could slip out of the church unnoticed. But Sylvie spotted me and came over.

She seemed preternaturally calm, and I wondered if Jane had given her something. Then I remembered what Sylvie had endured in the last few days, and I knew there was nothing in the pharmacopoeia that could have even made a dint in her pain. Sylvie was a strong woman, and she was drawing on her strength.

She didn’t waste time on preambles. “I need to talk to you, Jo,” she said. She gestured toward an area down the corridor. “Come back and have a cup of coffee.” Taylor and Jess ran on ahead, and I followed her down the hall.

If I’d needed anything to depress me further on that depressing day, the reception set out for Gary Stephens’s funeral would have done it. There were plates of sandwiches and dainties, two big coffee urns, and cups and saucers for at least a hundred and fifty people. We were the only ones in the room.

Sylvie led me to the corner where four chairs had been grouped for conversation. When she sat down, she clasped
her hands in front of her, like a schoolgirl. I noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. For a moment, she seemed at a loss. Finally, she said, “I didn’t know about Jenny’s death, and I didn’t know about Ian. I didn’t know any of this, Jo. You have to believe me.”

“I believe you,” I said.

Sylvie pointed to Jess and Taylor sitting at another table. “I was afraid you wouldn’t let Taylor play with Jess.” When she said her son’s name, her voice shook. “I don’t want anything more to go wrong for him.”

She looked away. “Do you remember how beautiful he was, Jo?”

I was confused. “How beautiful Jess was?”

“Not Jess,” she said. “Gary.”

“I remember,” I said.

“I don’t feel anything,” she said. “He’s dead and I don’t feel anything. There was a time when I thought I couldn’t live an hour without him.”

For the first time that day, Sylvie’s eyes filled with tears. “How is that possible, Jo? How can a person just stop loving?”

I didn’t know what to say. At the same time, I knew Sylvie didn’t need my words. At least not then. Mercifully, Taylor and Jess heard Sylvie and came over. I gave Jess a hug, then I stood and put my arm around Taylor. “Jess is welcome at our place anytime,” I said. “So are you.”

Sylvie nodded. “Thanks,” she said. “And thanks for coming.”

We started to leave, but Taylor grabbed my arm. “Jess says we’re supposed to sign the book.” Beside the door there was a small table with a guest book and a photograph of Gary. It was an outdoor shot. He was wearing an open-necked shirt, and he was squinting against the sun. Beside the portrait there was a vase with a single prairie lily. I signed my name
in the book; under it, Taylor carefully printed hers. Ours were the only names on the page.

Craig Evanson was waiting outside the door. “I thought you and Sylvie might want some privacy,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.

“How’s the baby?” Taylor asked.

“Perfect,” Craig said. “Would you like to see her?”

“You mean today?” Taylor said.

“Why not?” Craig said.

“Jo doesn’t believe in kids skipping school for no reason.”

“Seeing a new baby is a reason,” Craig said.

Taylor looked glum. “It won’t be a reason for Jo,” she said.

“At the moment, I can’t think of a better one,” I said. I held my hand out to her. “Come on. Let’s go.”

When Manda Traynor-Evanson answered the door, she had the baby in her arms and the ginger cats, Mallory and Alex P. Kitten at her heels. Taylor didn’t know who to grab first. Manda solved the problem. She asked us to take off our coats, then she turned to Taylor.

“Would you like to stay for lunch?”

“I would,” Taylor said.

“So would I,” I said.

“Great,” said Manda. “But, Taylor, you’ll have to give me a hand with the little one. Why don’t you scoot into the family room and sit in the big brown chair. That’s the official baby-holding chair.”

When Taylor was settled, I stood behind her. Together, we looked down at the baby.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” I said.

Taylor touched the baby’s hand gently. “I didn’t know babies were born with fingernails and eyelashes,” she whispered. “I thought they grew those later, the way they grow teeth.”

“No,” I said, “they’re pretty well perfect right from the start.”

“She’s perfect,” Taylor said. Then she furrowed her brow. “Jo, what is this baby’s name?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “There’s been so much going on. I guess we just never asked.”

“Ask,” Taylor said.

“You ask,” I said. “It won’t sound so dumb coming from a kid.”

Manda was standing in the doorway. “What won’t sound so dumb?”

“That we don’t know your baby’s name,” Taylor said.

Manda grinned. “Her name is Grace. After we’d bored everybody to death asking for advice and bought every book, we named her after Craig’s mother.”

I looked at the baby. Her hair was dark and silky, and her mouth was as delicate as a rosette on a Victorian Valentine. “Grace suits her,” I said.

Lunch was fun. When Craig came home, he set up a table in the family room, so we could watch the birds at the bird-feeder while we ate. Manda had warmed up a casserole of tofu lasagna, so I was glad Taylor was distracted. When we’d had our fill of tofu, Craig and I cleared the dishes, and Taylor played with the cats while Manda fed Grace. Then we all drank camomile tea from thick blue mugs and talked about babies.

“If Grace had been a boy, what were you going to call him?” Taylor asked.

“Craig, Jr.,” Manda said, shifting the baby on her hip. “We’ll save it for the next one if that’s okay with you.”

“That’s okay with me,” Taylor said. “It’s not a good name for a cat.”

“Did I miss something here?” Craig asked.

“Taylor still hasn’t named her kitten,” I said.

Manda shrugged. “I’ve got a stack of baby name books over there, Taylor. If you like, you can take them with you when you go. We’ve already got a name for Kid Number Two, and when Number Three comes along, I’ll get the books back.”

Craig turned to Taylor. “You’re welcome to the books,” he said, “but I think I know a name that might work. It’s the name of the man who’s the patron saint of artists: ‘Benet.’ ”

“Benet,” Taylor repeated the name thoughtfully. “What do you think, Jo?”

“I like it,” I said.

“So do I,” Taylor said. “Because if my cat’s name is Benet, I can call him Benny for short, and I really like the name Benny.”

The wind was coming up as Taylor and I walked home. When we got to our corner, I saw that the boys had turned the outside Christmas lights on. The day had turned grey and cold, and the lights in front of our house were a welcoming sight. Even Jack O’Lantern looked good. During the long mild spell, his centre of gravity had shifted. From a distance, the lights inside him made him look like an exotic Central American pot.

Taylor ran ahead. She couldn’t wait to tell Benny that, at long last, he had a name. Halfway up our walk, she wheeled around and waved her arms at me. “It’s snowing,” she yelled. “We’re going to have snow for Christmas.”

I looked up at the sky. Storm clouds were rolling in from the north, and with them the promise of a world that would soon be white and pure again.