The Early Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn (17 page)

“The Red River Royals,” I said.

He looked up, surprised.

“I may not be a jock, Dave, but I am a Canadian.”

He smiled. “So you are. Sorry, Jo. Anyway here’s the story. Really it’s not much. It started during that first election in 1970, just after Andy was first nominated and Howard Dowhanuik was head of the party. Howard called me and said he had some money for Andy’s campaign. You know how you have to put a name on all contributions over a certain amount? Well, I can’t remember what the amount was back then, but this was over it. I assumed the money was Howard’s. Andy had been Howard’s student, and Howard had really pressured him to run. So it made sense to think the money came from Howard and he just didn’t want others thinking it was favouritism.

“I donated the money in my name and got a really nice letter from Andy after the election – handwritten. Funny thing, but I guess that money I didn’t contribute was the beginning of my friendship with him. Well, every year it was the same story. In years that there was no election, I’d just give the money to Andy’s constituency association, and
when there was an election I’d give the legal limit to the campaign. Andy was always grateful. Then as the years went by and we became friends, it was harder and harder to say anything other than, ‘You’re welcome – hope it helps.’ That’s how it was until last year, when Howard stepped down as leader and the race was on.

“Just after he resigned, Howard came over to the Caucus Office. He had a really substantial sum of cash – it was always cash. This time Howard came, not just with the money but with an explanation. He said it was time I knew the score, that I might feel compromised if I believed that he was favouring Andy over the other candidates for the leadership. And then he told me the story of Lane Appleby. That morning in my office Howard was edgier than I ever remember him being. But as he said, from the outset, it had been a queer arrangement. Nothing illegal or immoral or unethical, just peculiar.

“It had started when Andy had been in a class Howard taught. About two months into the term Howard got a call from an old friend in Winnipeg. The guy did Charlie Appleby’s legal work and he said Charlie had heard great things about Andy, which was strange, because Andy was, according to Howard, a solid but not exceptional student. Anyway, Charlie wanted to know if he could contribute to Andy’s education, anonymously, of course, perhaps through a scholarship. Well, as you would know, that sort of thing has to go through all sorts of official channels, and that wasn’t what Appleby’s lawyer wanted at all. So Howard, who wanted to help a promising Ukrainian kid and who could see nothing wrong with taking money when there were no strings attached, agreed to set up a couple of ongoing projects that Andy could help with – in return, of course, for a stipend.” He shook his head in amusement. “Only academics could come up with that word.

“Anyway, that was the start, and Howard made sure the Appleby money got to Andy through one channel or another till the day Andy died. In fact, about twenty minutes before Andy was murdered, Lane Appleby gave me an envelope of cash for the campaign. That’s what I was talking to her about after the funeral. She didn’t want to take it back.”

“What did the Applebys get out of it?”

“I honestly don’t know, Jo. It seems so fishy when I sit here and lay it all out for you. Even my alarm bells are going off. But it happened a little at a time, and Andy never knew. I promise you that. There were never any special favours – never. Not from Andy, not from Howard and not from me. I wish you would just let it go, Jo. I’ve told you everything you need to know. There’s nothing to be gained by digging up the past.”

“I can’t let it go, Dave. There’s been a murder. Our friend was murdered. What if Lane Appleby knows something that could help us find the person who killed Andy? I need to see her, Dave. I need to see a lot of people if I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

He looked old and defeated. “Isn’t it bad enough the police are questioning everything about Andy’s life? Six times they’ve been to see me, Jo. Asking about everything from Andy’s finances to his toilet habits. Isn’t it bad enough they’re violating his life? Can’t his friends let him rest in peace?”

“That’s not fair. Dave, please …”

But he wasn’t listening. He’d pulled out a pen and a pocket diary and he was scribbling something on a napkin.

“Here, Jo.” He slid the napkin over to me, and his face was indescribably sad. “I have a feeling you’re going to be very sorry you started this. I hope I’m wrong. I’ll pay for the breakfast.”

I’d hurt him and I didn’t understand why, but as I watched
his jaunty figure trudge through the rain to his Bronco, I felt my throat tighten. When the red truck left the parking lot, the tears started. I sat and looked out the window until Al came over and started ostentatiously wiping the table for lunch. I grabbed the napkin just in time. On it, in Dave’s neat, schoolteacher’s hand, was:

There were two telephone numbers. After the second, he had written “her unlisted number – your best bet.”

The day after I talked to Dave Micklejohn I drove to Wolf River. I had set up an office in the granny flat the night before. The boys and I ate supper, then I’d spent a quiet, happy evening sharpening pencils and labelling vertical files and notebooks. And I’d made some phone calls. The first was to Ali Sutherland. I hadn’t talked to her since the day after Andy died, but I’d been thinking about her open invitation to visit her in Winnipeg from the moment I’d seen Lane Appleby’s address. Thanksgiving was in a week and two days, and I decided to call and see if we were welcome. Her voice at the other end of the line was warm and delighted.

“Oh, Jo, the answer to my prayers – a real Thanksgiving with real food and a real family. Oh, God, I sound like something out of a Walt Disney movie, but I thought we were going to end up getting take-out from the deli and calling an escort service. Do those people do just plain friends for family holidays, do you think?”

Even during those black months after Ian died, Ali had been able to make me smile.

“I can’t imagine you two without friends,” I said.

“Believe. It’s been that kind of summer. Mort’s been up to his elbows and I think I’m treating half of South Winnipeg. Lord, now I’m whining and you won’t come. Call me with a list, Jo. I’ll get Mort to shop. We can sit and talk and I’ll do all the menial stuff like chopping while you excel. Anything at all, as long as one course is your salmon mousse. No, as long all the courses are your salmon mousse. It’ll be like old times – terrific! There goes my beeper – call with the list. Take care of yourself, Jo.”

I almost didn’t get through to Lane Appleby. Her housekeeper was as protective as a housekeeper in a Gothic novel. Mrs. Appleby was resting and shouldn’t be disturbed. I looked at my watch. It was 7:00 p.m. in Winnipeg. “Tell her please that it’s Joanne Kilbourn calling about Andy Boychuk.” Lane Appleby was on the phone almost immediately, but she did sound as if she should not have been disturbed. Her voice was listless and her responses not entirely coherent. She sounded drugged or drunk. Yes, she knew who I was. Yes, she’d see me at Thanksgiving. I repeated the dates I’d be in Winnipeg four times to make sure they registered with her.

When I hung up, I wondered if in the morning she’d even remember that I had called. But somehow I was going to get to ask my questions. Now I just had to know which questions to ask. I had to find out who knew what about Lane Appleby, and the place to start was Wolf River.

It was time to see Eve again. I needed answers, and I had a feeling Eve had them. She was worth a call.

I also wanted to call Soren Eames. He might know why Lane Appleby had decided to spend millions endowing a chapel in the middle of the constituency where Andy Boychuk had his home, his son and his political base.

When I called Eve, she sounded distracted. Yes, sure, I could come. She’d be in her pottery studio all day. No, it
didn’t matter when I came, she was just throwing pots – more pots that nobody wanted.

I didn’t have to call Soren Eames. He called me. His voice was boyish but edgy. He had meant to call earlier to apologize, but it had been a difficult time. Could I come sometime soon and let him show me through the college? He’d come into the city and drive me down if that would be better for me. He seemed immensely relieved when I said I’d drive down the next day and see him after lunch. His words, before he hung up, made me think that perhaps it was more than just a social call. “This means a lot to me, Mrs. Kilbourn – Joanne. I’m grateful to you – very grateful.”

I looked at my daybook for the next couple of weeks. In addition to my big three – Eve Boychuk, Soren Eames and Lane Appleby – I’d pencilled in appointments with the provincial archivist, with the president of Andy’s constituency and with eight of the people who’d served in the Cabinet with Andy. Things were shaping up. On a whim, I picked up the telephone and dialled Ottawa. Rick Spenser answered on the first ring. Four for four. This was my lucky night.

“Rick, hi. How did your friend the Cabinet minister like the salmon mousse?”

“She went at it like a pack of jackals and gave me nothing in return but some mouldy rumours that I’d heard before – a waste of your fine recipe and twelve dollars’ worth of Lefkowitz Nova Scotia smoked salmon. Joanne, it’s good to hear a sane voice.”

“You sound beleaguered.”

“I am beleaguered. This place is steaming. Record temperatures for October in case you haven’t heard, and the humidity is unbelievable. Between the weather and rumours about an election call, people are foaming at the mouth. God, Jo, why do we ever get involved with this stuff? Somewhere
civilized people are listening to Ravel string quartets and talking about Proust, and here I am driving all over this town in the heat chasing down some half-wit whose brother-in-law knows somebody who works for an ad agency who says the government has block-booked media time for October and November and the writ will be dropped any minute. God, everybody’s gone nuts. The politicians are foaming waiting for the pm to call on the governor general, and we’re foaming waiting for something, anything, to happen so we’ll finally have a story. Sorry, Jo – referential mania, the Ottawa disease. And oh, God, it
is
hot here. How’re things with you? How’s the project?”

“Good. I’m cool and organized – sitting in the granny flat with the air conditioner humming quietly and a shelf full of virginal vertical files, a box of fresh paper and a jar of sharp pencils, ready to begin –”

“No word processor, no personal computer – Jo, who would have suspected you were a dinosaur?”

“Anyone who ever saw me dealing with a device that had more than two moving parts. Anyway, dinosaur or not, I think I’m making some headway. Dave Micklejohn told me some stuff that suggests a definite connection between Andy and Lane Appleby – the mystery woman in that picture of Andy’s body being put into the ambulance after he was … well you know, after … Howard says the Applebys have been smoothing Andy’s financial path since he was in university, and that seems to be a giant lead to me. I called Winnipeg tonight and Lane Appleby has agreed to see me over the Thanksgiving weekend.”

“Thanksgiving? Joanne, that’s forever.”

“Only for Americans. This is Canada, remember? We have to give thanks before everything freezes on the vine. It’s a week from Monday, my friend – October tenth. Life is just moving too quickly for us, I guess. Anyway, between now
and then I’m going to see what I can dig up on the Appleby-Boychuk connection. I want to be able to ask the right questions. I’m going to see Eve tomorrow.”

His voice was laconic. “How’s she doing?”

“Well, to be honest, she sounded a bit out of it on the phone, but even at the best of times, Eve tends to be unfocused.”

“And, of course, these are not the best of times.”

“No, they most assuredly are not. Not for anyone, I guess. I had a phone call from Soren Eames tonight. Remember him? The mystery pastor? Anyway, he was just about abject when I agreed to go out and see him. I wonder why.”

“What’s he like, Joanne? What’s your sense of him?”

“Well, the only times I’ve seen him he’s been terribly upset. I can’t be sure, but I think I saw him for a moment near the ambulance that day at the picnic. He took care of Roma after the ambulance left. Then I saw him in his office at Wolf River the next day. And I talked to him briefly at the reception after the funeral. Emotion-charged times, but even then he was pretty riveting.”

“Pretty what? I didn’t hear your adjective, Joanne.”

“Riveting. He had presence – the kind of person you can feel in a room. He’s gorgeous, you know. He looks like James Taylor, the singer – very tall and dark and slim. And he has a sense of drama. He dresses all in black. He’s a man you would notice – very sexual.”

There was silence at the other end, and I wondered if we’d been cut off.

“Rick, are you there?”

“Yes. I’m here. Sorry … Look, I’d better go. I’ll call you tomorrow night.” His voice was strained, and I found myself smiling when I thought about the reason for his sudden awkwardness. Jealousy – I had gone on too long and too enthusiastically about Soren Eames. Tall, dark, slim, riveting, gorgeous – I had, as we used to say in high school, laid it on
with a trowel, and Rick didn’t like it because – and I grew warm with the thought – because he was interested in me.

It had been so long since I’d been romantically involved with a man that I’d forgotten the vanities and the vulnerability.

“Rick, it’ll be good to talk to you again tomorrow – any time, it’s always good.”

“Good night, Joanne, and thanks.” The connection was broken, and I was alone in the granny flat remembering the interest in Rick’s voice, smiling …

As I drove along the Trans-Canada to Wolf River I tried to remember the second line of “To Autumn.” “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” and then something about the maturing sun.

I looked at the scorched fields and the stunted crops – there wouldn’t be many farmers in our province reciting odes to the maturing sun this fall. It had rained on and off for a week after Andy’s funeral, but the earth had sucked up the moisture without a trace. The rain had come late and the land had been dry. Still, Keats could have made a poem of this morning – brilliant sun, the sky lifting big and blue against the land. It was, I reminded myself as I drove slowly and safely off the Belle Plaine overpass, a good day to be alive.