The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn (70 page)

Jill laughed. “So, is the shirt omen enough for us to offer Ken Leung the job?”

“Sure,” I said. “Especially when you factor in his intelligence, his presence on camera, and the fact that he will appeal to a whole new demographic. It’ll be good for all of us to have somebody on the show who knows what the world feels like to people born after 1970.

“He speaks Cantonese, too,” Jill said. “Do you think Glayne will like him?”

“She’ll love him. He’s a terrific find. If I were you, I’d offer him the job before somebody else grabs him.”

Jill picked up the phone and dialled Ken Leung’s home number. The person on the other end of the line said Ken was playing tennis, but he was expected back any moment. Jill said the matter was urgent and left her number. When she hung up, she screwed her face into an expression that was supposed to be beseeching. “Wait with me until he calls? It’s so boring here on Saturdays; besides, it will give us a chance to get down and dirty about our lives without Angus flapping around.”

“I’ll stay,” I said. “But at the moment, there’s nothing in my life to get down and dirty about.”

Jill frowned. “You and Alex
are
still together, aren’t you?”

“I guess so, but it doesn’t feel like we’re together. His nephew’s had a lot of problems lately, and Alex and I had a pretty nasty exchange about it last night.”

“I didn’t think you two ever fought.”

“We don’t,” I said. “Maybe we’d be better off now if we had.”

Jill frowned. “Is it that serious?”

“I don’t know. There’s just so much we never talk about. I think we’re both afraid that if we ever really started talking about all the things we were worried about, we’d discover we had too many strikes against us.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No,” I said, “but thanks for asking.”

Jill glanced at her phone. “Looks like we may be here for a while. Do you want a Coke?”

“Sure,” I said.

Jill went to the apartment-sized fridge in the corner of her office. She took out two Cokes, snapped the caps, and handed me one.

I took a sip. “Jill, what do you know about Justine Blackwell and her family?”

Jill’s eyes widened. “Where did that come from?”

“From my concern about Hilda,” I said.

“I noticed she’s become the family spokesperson,” Jill said. “It struck me as a little bizarre.”

“She’s also the executrix of Justine’s will,” I said. “And I don’t like it. I also don’t like some of the people who’ve come with the package. Hilda offered to do an old friend a favour, then all of a sudden she’s at the centre of all this hostility.”

“Do you want me to do some digging?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I do. What’s your take on Justine’s murder?”

“I haven’t got one,” Jill said. “If you watch our news or read the paper, you know as much as I know. There’s the Wayne J. Waters and Co. angle, and there’s the family angle.”

“The family angle,” I said.

“Surely you’ve cottoned to the fact that Justine wasn’t exactly mother of the year.”

“I have,” I said. “But Justine’s daughters aren’t exactly children. They’ve all accomplished things in their lives. Besides, by the time they hit their forties, most people recognize that there’s a statute of limitations on bad parenting.”

“Sometimes there are fresh offences,” Jill said mildly.

“That sounds as if you know something.”

“I know about one specific problem. It was with Tina. About a year ago, Tina decided she needed plastic surgery.”

“But she’s so attractive.”

“She’s also forty-four.”

“That’s not old.”

“It’s old for television,” Jill said. “By the time a woman’s forty-four, the camera has stopped being her friend. Tina had been doing the supper-hour news on
CJRG
for twenty-one years. Anyway, some asshole over in their news division decided to trade her in for a newer model. Tina thought she might be able to hold on to her job if she got one of those bloodless facelifts.

I winced. “What on earth is a bloodless facelift?”

“We did a piece on it last fall. It’s the hot new alternative to the surgeon’s knife: laser surgery. It zaps wrinkles by literally burning away the skin on the face. Some of the people on the piece we did had great results.”

“But Tina didn’t.”

Jill shook her head. “She tried to do it on the cheap. It’s an expensive procedure. Twenty thousand U.S. Tina didn’t have that kind of money. Regina’s a pretty small market, and those local stations don’t pay diddley.”

“Why didn’t she go to her mother?”

“That’s what a lot of people wondered. Rumour had it that Madame Justice Blackwell was too busy dealing with the financial needs of her new friends to spend money on her daughter.”

I sipped my Coke. “Do you believe that?”

Jill shrugged. “I don’t know. People talk. Anyway, Tina pulled together what she could and went down to the some laser-surgery clinic in Tennessee. They botched it. Her skin looks like she’s been burned and she’s quite badly scarred. She came to me this summer to ask if we had anything for her in radio. She’s good on air and experienced, but we’re bringing along our own people. Our own
young
people.”

The phone rang. “Speaking of young people,” I said. “That must be our Generation X-er.”

When Jill picked up the phone, I gathered up our Coke bottles and started out the door towards the recycle box. Jill shouted after me. “Hang on,” she said. “It’s for you.”

Angus’s voice was cracking with excitement. “I’m an uncle,” he said. “Mieka finally had the baby. I talked to Greg. Everybody’s all right. He says the baby weighs – just a minute, I wrote it down – nine pounds, eleven ounces. It could be a linebacker, Mum.”

“Nine pounds, eleven ounces. Poor Mieka,” I said.

“Greg said she was a little wiped,” Angus conceded. “Anyway, I told her we’d come up to Saskatoon tonight. We can go up tonight, can’t we?

“We’ll leave as soon as I get home,” I said. “Wow, I can’t believe it! A grandson!”

“Where did you get that? It’s a girl, Mum. Her name is – wait a minute, I wrote that down too – the baby’s name is Madeleine Kilbourn Harris.”

“But you said … Never mind. So the linebacker is a girl.”

Angus laughed. “Greg said he’s signing her up for the Powder Puff League first thing Monday morning.”

When I got home, I called Mieka to tell her we were on our way. She sounded tired, but very happy. Then I dialled Alex’s number. There was no answer, and he didn’t have voice mail. I hung up the phone, reached under the bed, and pulled out the cradle board Alex had made for the new baby. Our relationship had hit a bad patch, but I still wanted him to be part of the next few hours.

I was throwing a nightie into my overnight bag when Hilda came in. Her hot-pink and apple-green outfit was as cheerful as a late summer orchard, and she was beaming. She came over and embraced me.

“Angus told me the good news,” she said. “And he told me you’re going to Saskatoon tonight. You’re welcome to stay at my house, if that would help.”

“Thanks,” I said. “We’ll be all right at Greg and Mieka’s. It’s only for one night. Hilda, should I call somebody to come in and walk Rose?”

She shook her head. “No need,” she said. “I’ll welcome the walk before bedtime. I have to finish going through Justine’s private financial records, and that’s bound to be unpleasant.”

“Don’t tell me Justine couldn’t balance her chequebook,” I said.

Hilda didn’t smile at my joke. “No, Justine was meticulous. It’s just troubling to see how much she gave and how little she seemed to get back.” She shook herself. “Not one more word about Justine. This is a day for celebration.”

I gave her a hug. “If you change your mind about Rose, there’s a list of Angus’s buddies by the phone. Any of them will be happy to walk her for the price of a Big Gulp.”

Hilda smiled. “A reasonable fee. Now, off with you. Give Mieka and Greg my love, and kiss Madeleine for me.” She drew me close. “Take care of yourself, Joanne. You’re very dear to me.”

“And you are to me,” I said. “I’ll call you when I get back from the hospital.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Hilda said.

I zipped up my overnight bag, picked up a jacket, and grabbed the tape of Lucy Blackwell I’d been listening to that afternoon. Chances were good that Angus would howl at my choice of travel music, but there was always the possibility that Lucy had been around long enough to be retro.

Before I dropped the tape in my bag, I glanced at the photograph on the cover. Rumour had it that Bob Dylan had taken that photo of Lucy on the swing. Twenty-nine years ago, stuck with the coffee parties and the constituency lists while my new husband made a name for himself in politics, I had, on more than one occasion, envied that lovely girl her life of adventure and freedom. I didn’t envy her now. Nothing in Lucy Blackwell’s life, past or present, could hold a candle to the prospect of holding Madeleine Kilbourn Harris in my arms.

CHAPTER

7

Royal University Hospital in Saskatoon is a teaching hospital on the west side of the University of Saskatchewan campus. From our spot in the parking lot, I could see the riverbank above the South Saskatchewan River. The leaves of the willows and scrub birch were beginning to change colour. In a week, they’d be saffron; in three weeks, they’d be gone, and the long grey winter would be upon us. But that September evening, as the sun warmed the tindall stone of the campus’s oldest buildings, we were in the timeless world of a university at the beginning of term, and the air was fresh with new beginnings.

Mieka’s room was on the fourth floor. As Angus, Taylor, and I crowded into the elevator, I found myself hoping her roommates were a tolerant crew. We came bearing gifts. I’d stopped at a stand at the edge of town to buy gladioli, Mieka’s favourites, and Taylor had picked out enough spectacular blooms for a Mafia funeral. Angus was carrying the cradle board Alex had made and an industrial-sized bag of Mieka’s favourite gumdrops, and I had an armful of gifts from Jill, Hilda, and me, and a weathered package from my
older son, Peter, who was working with a veterinarian in Whitehorse. One of Pete’s friends from N.W.T. had dropped the parcel at our house the week before with strict instructions that we deliver it when the baby was born.

As soon as the elevator doors opened, Taylor hit the corridor at a dead run. Blinded by the gladioli, she missed by a hairsbreadth colliding with a young woman in a fuzzy pink housecoat who was moving with the painful steps of a patient recovering from a Caesarean section. My younger daughter was headed for trouble, but there was time to nip it in the bud.

“All right, T,” I said, “that’s enough.”

She wheeled around and peered at me through the gladioli.

“Do we need to find a quiet place where we can talk?” I said.

Her lower lip shot out. “No,” she said.

“Good,” I said, “because you and I have been waiting a long time to meet Madeleine. I don’t think either of us wants to waste time cooling our heels out here.”

Mieka was in a semi-private room at the end of the hall. Greg met us at the door and, after a flurry of hugs, he ushered us in. Luckily, it appeared that there was no roommate. My daughter was sitting by the window, holding her daughter. I thought I was prepared for the moment, but as soon as I saw mother and child together, my throat closed. I walked over, kissed Mieka, and drew back the receiving blanket so I could see Madeleine. She was a beauty, with a mop of dark hair, a rosebud mouth, and fingers and toes impossibly small and perfect.

“Here,” Mieka said, offering the baby to me. I took her. The first time I had held my own daughter, I had been exhausted from a too-long labour and terrified about whether I would be a good mother. The joy I felt when I looked down at my granddaughter that night was unalloyed by memories
of past pain or fear of the future. I was simply and overwhelmingly happy.

“Hi, Madeleine,” I said. The baby looked up at me intently.

Taylor stood on tiptoe to look into her new niece’s face. “She knows who you are,” she said softly. “I’m Taylor Love, Madeleine.”

Angus leaned over for a closer look. “Pretty nice,” he said. He turned to his big sister. “Good job, Mieka.”

“Piece of cake,” she said. “Now, come on, hand over those gumdrops, and let’s open the presents.”

The rest of the visit was etched in gold. We found containers for the glads, and I held the baby while Mieka and Greg opened the gifts. Jill had been shooting a series in B.C. over the summer and she’d brought back the tiniest siwash sweater I’d ever seen; Hilda’s gift was a Beatrix Potter mug and porringer, and a cheque to start a bank account so the baby could see Beatrix Potter country some day; Peter’s unwieldy package contained a handmade quilt in the spectacular colours of a northern sunset. My present was practical: a gift certificate for six months of visits from a cleaning service. We praised all the gifts extravagantly, but it was Alex’s present that was the real hit. Greg, who was a weekend carpenter, gazed assessingly at the cradle board Alex had made.

“That’s hand-done,” he said. “It’s a beautiful piece of woodworking.”

I felt a rush of pride. “Alex will be glad you appreciated the work he put into it.”

There was one final order of business. I called Taylor over. “There’s a book in my bag. Could you get it?”

When Taylor pulled out the worn copy of Margaret Wise Brown’s
Goodnight Moon
, she eyed it with interest. “You used to read that to me.”

I nodded. “And before that, I read it to Angus and before Angus to Peter …”

“And before Peter to Mieka,” she said. “And now you want to give it to Madeleine.”

“I thought you might like to give it to her.”

“I’ll read it to her,” Taylor said. And she did. In the flat cadences of the new reader, Taylor worked her methodical way through the story of the little rabbit saying goodnight to all the ordinary pleasures of his world. It was a stellar performance. Even Angus remained silent. When she’d finished, Taylor handed the book to Mieka.

It was a nice note to leave on. I kissed the baby and, reluctantly, placed her in her father’s arms.