Kaleidoscope (36 page)

There is something comforting about a funeral service that follows a ritual. A ceremony acknowledging the broken-ness that comes in the wake of death is a reminder that others have faced the abyss and endured. Leland’s service adhered to the traditional Protestant pattern of comforting words from the Gospels and psalms and prayers interspersed with music.

When Declan and Margot expressed their personal loss, their pain was searing, and I was grateful that we had the safety net of ritual. Declan played and sang Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven” – a tough choice, and he almost made it until his voice broke in the last chorus. Beside me, Taylor tensed and leaned forward, willing Declan to continue. He did, and he finished strongly.

Margot and Declan had worked together on the eulogy. It was highly personal, warm, funny, and revealing. It was also effective. In evoking the man they had known in a way that few of us had, Margot and Declan underscored the magnitude of our loss.

Riel’s appearance addressed another loss. When Margot had finished the eulogy, Riel presented her with the multicoloured woven scarf that is emblematic of the Métis culture – disparate elements coming together to form an integrated whole. His words were simple: “This scarf honours your husband’s work for the Métis people and the commitment he made to our future.”

The young pianist played the opening notes of William Blake’s “Jerusalem,” and we rose to sing the final hymn. Zack’s voice, strong, rich, and full-timbred, made the
challenge of Blake’s lyrics come alive. As he sang the final verse, I understood why Margot had chosen a slightly revised version of “Jerusalem” as the coda to her husband’s funeral.

Bring me my bow of burning gold
Bring me my arrows of desire
.
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In this green and pleasant land
.

In a display of ecumenism, Campion, the Catholic College, and Luther College were architecturally joined. Campion had a larger public space and better sandwiches, so the funeral reception was being held there. As Zack and I took the five-minute walk between Luther and Campion, he said, “Remind me. What’s the purpose of these things anyway?”

“In theory, the reception after the funeral helps us reconnect with ordinary life,” I said.

Zack snorted. “Then they should serve something stronger than tea.”

Steve and Lori now had five children and Margot’s brothers each had four, so including Madeleine and Lena, there were twenty-seven boys and girls under the age of twelve at the reception. Reconnecting with life was a necessity, not an option. The combination of fancy sandwiches, other kids, and plenty of space was heady. Life was all around us, and it was hard not to get involved.

Hunter, in her tiny dress with the appliquéd apple blossoms, was a great hit. Barry and Ed carried her around the room as if she were spun gold – as, of course, she was. Everyone was drained, but exhaustion in the company of
others was still more palatable than being alone. So we pushed on – laughing quietly, exchanging reminiscences, commenting on the beauty of the service and the day.

When we left, I embraced Margot. “Why don’t we go for a swim tomorrow morning?”

“Six o’clock?” she said. “I’m not training for the Iron Man.”

“I’ll meet you by the elevator,” I said.

Taylor had decided to come home with Declan, so Zack and I were alone. “Wouldn’t take many days like that to make a dozen,” Zack said.

“You’re right about that,” I said. “I’m going to get out of this dress and into something comfortable.”

Zack took off his jacket and loosened his tie. “What would you say to a nice tall gin and tonic?”

“I’d say, ‘Where have you been all my life?’ ”

The sun was slanting in the sky, but the air was cooling and it was pleasant just to stretch out on the chaise longue. I sipped my gin and tonic. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired.”

“Neither have I,” Zack said. “Let’s turn in early.”

I closed my eyes. “What time is it now?”

“Five-thirty,” Zack said.

“Too early. We’re adults. We have to stay up till at least six. But I hope Margot can get some sleep tonight,” I said. “She was magnificent today. The moment when Riel handed her the scarf was electric and then that last hymn. Margot made sure that Leland’s message came through loud and clear.”

“We’re building the new Jerusalem,” Zack said. “So don’t get in our way.”

The next morning, the water Margot and I swam in still held the coolness of night, and we both emerged from the pool invigorated.

Margot towelled off and slipped into her robe. “Well, that was bracing,” she said. “Now I just have to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.”

“Why don’t you try the ‘one day at a time’ model for a while,” I said.

She shrugged. “That’s probably not the worst idea you ever had. Planning hasn’t exactly worked for me lately.”

“You could take the morning off,” I said. “Go up to the roof garden and read
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
.”

“I’ve read it,” Margot said.

I smiled. “You are such a keener,” I said.

“Always the girl with her hand up because she knew the answers,” Margot said. “Don’t worry. I’ll find something to do. Actually, I have a meeting with Riel this morning about the Racette-Hunter Facility.”

“Is that what it’s going to be called?”

“It was Declan’s idea – honour the two men who …” She bit her lip. “Well, you know.”

“It’s a strong name,” I said. “Something people will actually use.” We started back towards our building. “I’m going to be around most of the day so shout if you want company.”

“I will.” Margot hesitated. “Jo, I hope you know how much it helps just knowing you and Zack are there. And Declan couldn’t make it through this without Taylor, I know.”

“You’d do it for us,” I said. I slipped my arm around her waist. “Do you realize that in a few weeks, getting my arm around your waist is going to be a stretch.”

“I can hardly wait,” she said. When her tears came, I was prepared. “Hormones,” I said, and we both laughed.

When I went in to change, Zack followed me into our room. “I have to go into the office for a couple of hours,” he said. “I’ve let things slide, and I have to get everything back on
track before there’s a real problem.” He wheeled over. “If I leave now, I can be back by lunch.”

I drove Taylor to Willy Hodgson and arrived home just as the courier truck pulled up in front of our building. There were two envelopes for me – both expected.

The smaller one contained a DVD-R Jill sent me of potentially usable footage of Leland and Riel; the larger one was from Patrick Hawley at the Calgary office. I took both upstairs, dropped the DVD-R into my laptop, and watched for a few minutes. It was all recent material: the presentation of the Métis scarf at the funeral, the press conference on the site of the shared multipurpose facility, and the ugly encounter between Riel and Leland outside the Conexus Centre. The footage would be useful when we started thinking about the shape the program might take, but right now it was painful to watch images of Leland, alive and full of plans.

I opened the large envelope from Calgary. Inside was a paper file, much like the file that Angus had brought me: an old folder stuffed with newspaper clippings and secured by elastic bands. I slid off the elastics. The clippings were all related to a particularly grisly murder from more than thirty years ago. A man had murdered his wife and her lover. A newborn and a ten-year-old child were in the room, but the man, whose name was Bryce Mackenzie, apparently couldn’t bring himself to finish the job and he turned himself in to the authorities. There were many grainy photos of the three principals in the case. When I read the name
Bryce Mackenzie
, I got a shiver. But Mackenzie is a common enough name in this country settled by Scots. He was a good-looking man with a history of mental illness that was apparent in the pain in his eyes and the agony of his face. His wife, Merrill, had a broad forehead, a direct gaze, and an appealingly crooked smile. Her lover was an
Aboriginal man. When I saw that his name was Tom Delorme, my pulse quickened.

I read and reread the account of the murders and of the trial and the tragic denouement. When I was finished, I was shaken. The children who had been present in the room during the murders were Riel and Sage. According to all who knew her, their mother, a community social worker, was close to being a saint. Shortly before their marriage, Bryce Mackenzie had been diagnosed with what was then known as manic depression. Merrill endured her husband’s mood swings: the days and months when he was manically active, promiscuous, and filled with delusions of grandeur, followed inevitably by the days and months of despair, fatigue, and suicidal depression. For ten years, Merrill never faltered in her devotion to her husband and later her daughter, and then she met Tom Delorme. When she gave birth to Riel, a child who was visibly Aboriginal, Bryce went berserk. He threatened Merrill, their daughter, and the baby, and when she took the children and fled, Bryce followed her.

At his trial, Bryce’s lawyer fought to get him put in a prison with a hospital where he might receive treatment, but the Crown prosecutor was adamant, stating that a person who took the life of another human being must pay the full penalty, and Bryce Mackenzie had taken two lives and left two children effectively orphaned. The jury, who at first had been inclined to go easy on Bryce because they understood why a disturbed man might kill a wife who’d been unfaithful with a native, were won over by the Crown prosecutor’s high-mindedness.

The jury found Bryce Mackenzie guilty of first degree murder in the deaths of Merrill Mackenzie and Tom Delorme. For each of the crimes, Bryce Mackenzie was sentenced to life with no possibility of parole for twenty-five years. The sentences would be served concurrently. Mackenzie was sent
to the penitentiary in Prince Albert, where he was thrown in with the general prison population.

Three weeks into his sentence, Bryce Mackenzie hanged himself. By then, the Crown prosecutor had resigned and was running for office in an affluent constituency with a large number of voters who self-identified as supporters of law and order. The candidate needed their votes, and by reminding them of his lofty speeches about insuring that the punishment fit the crime, the former Crown prosecutor brought his voters to the polls. He won handily, and at the age of twenty-eight Ian Kilbourn became Attorney General of the Province of Saskatchewan, and we were on our way.

I closed the folder, slid the elastics back into place, and stared at the file. As Leland had said on our first evening together, “There are always casualties.”

The contents of the second folder had rocked me. I was still trying to see where all the pieces fit when the phone rang. It was Jill Oziowy.

As always, Jill leapt right in. “We have a problem, Jo. I think I have a solution, but you may not be willing to go for it.”

“Try me.”

“Okay, hold on to your hat. Nation
TV
’s Regina station has it on good authority that Sage Mackenzie is within hours of being arrested for killing Leland Hunter.”

My heart was a stone in my chest. “This doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

“Is Riel involved?”

“No,” Jill said. “But unless we manage this information, Riel’s guilt or innocence will be a moot point.”

“Because Sage is Riel’s sister and people will believe he must have played some role in what happened.”

“Right,” Jill said. “But I think there’s a way to salvage this. We have to let the public know that they were estranged, and
we have to act fast.” She took a breath. “I want you to talk to Riel about getting Sage Mackenzie to turn herself in. He can go to the police station with her, but it has be clear that Riel, the new face of North Central, is on the side of law and order.”

“And so we come full circle,” I said.

Jill was irritated. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, but I do know that time is not on our side. You’ve got to talk to Riel.”

“Jill, this is crazy. I can’t ask Riel to get his sister to turn herself in.”

“Why not? Sage is going to be arrested anyway. And from what I hear Leland Hunter’s murder may not be the only charge against her. If she turns herself in, she can maintain at least a semblance of control.” Jill paused. “There is so much on the line here, Jo.”

“I know,” I said. “The Racette-Hunter Centre has the potential to change the lives of the people in North Central.”

“That’s why this program we’re working on matters so much,” Jill said. “But you know as well as I do that if Riel is no longer seen as a credible representative, all bets are off.”

My mind was reeling. “All right,” I said finally. “I’ll talk to him.”

I called Margot and told her that I needed to see Riel. Then I brought both files of clippings into the kitchen and put them on the butcher-block table. Before I had time to think through what I would say, Riel was at the door. He looked worried. “Is everything okay with Mieka and the girls?”

“They’re fine,” I said. “But there’s something we need to talk about. Let’s sit down.” Riel and I pulled up stools and I slid the file of his family’s tragic history across the table to him. He looked through it slowly, then closed it.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Who put all this stuff together?”

“Your half-sister,” I said.

“Sage? But this happened thirty years ago. Why would she give it to you.”

“Sage didn’t give it to me, Riel. She misplaced it.” I handed him the file with the clippings about Ian and our family. “Someone found it, put two and two together, and gave both files to me.”

Riel skimmed through the second file. “So you’re wondering about your late husband’s connection to my family?”