The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn (80 page)

Our eyes locked, and for a beat there was a powerful and wordless communication between us. “No,” I said. “It’s not easy at all.”

“Will you come to see me again?”

I nodded. “I’ll come again.”

“Good.” He looked puckish. “And bring something for the laundry hamper.”

The drive home was a short one, and Keith and I were silent, absorbed in our own thoughts. When we pulled up in front of my house, I turned to him. “What did you make of Garnet’s comment about Justine’s death being a stroke of luck for her daughters?”

“That thought’s never occurred to you?”

“I guess it has, but it just seemed too terrible to consider.”

“That’s where you and Garnet part company then, because I don’t imagine there’s much about human behaviour that he classifies as being ‘too terrible to consider.’ ”

“I liked him,” I said.

“I like him too.” Keith touched my cheek. “It’s not easy, is it?”

“You mean what’s waiting for us in the years ahead?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” he said. “It would be nice not to be alone.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It would be nice not to be alone.”

He kissed me. “I’ll phone you from Toronto.”

It was a little after 9:00 when I walked through the front door. When I called hello, only Rose responded, but she led me to the others. Angus and Leah were on the back deck, curled up together in one of the lazy lounges.

“You two look cosy,” I said.

“We are,” Angus agreed. “But we’re ready to move along, and a little coin for coffee at Roca Jack’s would be appreciated.”

“Is everything okay with Taylor?”

Leah stood up and stretched. “She’s out in her studio painting. Mrs. Kilbourn, that new picture of hers is sensational.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re in it,” Angus said. My son gave my shoulder an avuncular squeeze. “Now, Mum, about that cash infusion.”

I opened my bag and gave him a bill.

He waved it appreciatively. “Feeling generous tonight?”

“I’m investing in my old age,” I said. “I want to make you so indebted to me that you wouldn’t even consider making me spend my sunset years in Palliser Place.”

CHAPTER

11

The first voice I heard Sunday morning was Detective Robert Hallam’s. His gravelly baritone was uncharacteristically tentative. “I’m glad you’re up and about, Mrs. Kilbourn. You are an early bird, aren’t you?”

“It appears you are too.”

“They say the early bird gets the worm.”

“Exactly what worm are you after, Detective Hallam?”

He cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m after Rosalie Norman’s telephone number.” He coughed again. “It’s not in the book, and I thought perhaps you might have it. You wouldn’t be violating any privacy rights. Rosalie and I are planning to meet for lunch tomorrow.”

“Couldn’t wait, huh?”

“It’s not that. It’s …” He lowered his voice. “I thought Rosalie might like to go to the matinee of that play at the Globe.”

“They’re doing
Romeo and Juliet
, aren’t they? I hear it’s a very passionate production.”

“Do you think Rosalie will feel I’m coming on too strong?”

I thought of the new kittenish Rosalie with her black turtleneck and laughter in her voice. “She’ll love it,” I said. “Hang on. I’ve got last year’s university directory here. Her number will be in it.”

After I gave him the number, he repeated it twice, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Thank you, Mrs. Kilbourn. I appreciate your help.”

“Any time. Detective Hallam, while I’ve got you on the line, have you made any progress on finding out who attacked Hilda McCourt?”

“No. We’re back to interviewing people in your area about whether they spotted anyone suspicious that evening.”

“Didn’t you already do that?”

He sighed. “You bet we did. Twice. We’re not exactly popular with your neighbours. But Inspector Kequahtooway is pretty determined about this one.”

“I didn’t think he was part of the investigation.”

“He wasn’t. But he followed up some leads on his own time, then asked to be assigned officially.”

I remembered how I’d slammed the phone down the last time Alex and I spoke. More coals heaped upon my head. I took a deep breath. “Could you transfer me to Inspector Kequahtooway?” I said. “I’d like to let him know how grateful I am that he’s involving himself in Hilda’s case.”

“No problem, and thanks again, Mrs. Kilbourn. I know I got off to a lousy start with you, but you’re a peach.”

“At the moment I’m feeling a little bruised.”

“What?” he barked.

“It’s a joke.”

“I don’t get it,” he said. “Hang on, I’ll transfer you.”

For a few minutes, I languished in the silent land of
on hold
. Finally, Detective Hallam was back on the line, and his gravelly baritone was back to full volume. “Not on
duty,” he said. “Inspector Kequahtooway has booked off on personal business. One of the other aboriginal guys said he thought Inspector K. said something about going out to his reserve with his nephew.”

“Thanks for trying,” I said. “I hope you and Rosalie enjoy the play.”

I took my coffee out to the backyard. It was another five-star day, perfect weather to be out at Standing Buffalo. The hills would be warm with the colours of autumn: silver sage, burnt umber, goldenrod. Echo Lake, free at last of its summer burden of Jet Skis and motorboats, would be serene. Karen Kequahtooway had loved those hills, that lake. I sipped my coffee and tried to imagine this woman I’d never met. As a child, she had, Alex said, been surefooted, confident, filled with life; as a mother, her love for her son had made her vulnerable. Her hopes and her fears for him ended in a twisted mass of glass and metal when the brakes on her car failed and she missed a hairpin turn on the road that winds through the Qu’Appelle Valley. Eli had been with her on that lonely road; he had seen everything, and now Signe Rayner was forcing him to unearth all the pain he had buried beneath his memory’s surface.

When I spotted Eli’s plastic football abandoned in our fading flower garden, the symbolism overwhelmed me. I didn’t even try to hold back the tears. Eli was worth crying over; it had been a lousy month, and I was tired of being brave. After a few minutes of noisy crying, I felt better. I found a tissue in my jeans pocket that didn’t look too disreputable, blew my nose, and walked down to the garden to pick up the football. When I turned to go back to the house, Taylor was running towards me. She was still wearing her nightie, her face was swollen with sleep, and her hair was a tangle. At that moment, I couldn’t have conjured up a more beautiful sight.

I bent down and hugged her. “So,” I said, “what’s the plan for the day?”

“Come and see my new painting,” she said. “Then we can decide.”

I followed her out to her studio. One glance at the canvas on the easel and I knew Leah Drache had been right: the new picture was sensational. It was a fantasy, a picture of Taylor’s dream dragon-boat team. The boat was pulled up on the shore, and the members of the crew were getting ready for the race. Taylor, wearing her orange lifejacket over her green Bottlescrew Bill T-shirt, was already seated in the prow, beating her drum. Mieka and Greg and Madeleine were in place behind her. Hilda was helping Leah climb into the seat behind them. Angus and Eli were still on the shore, handing out paddles. I was sitting at the back of the boat, alone.

I pointed to the empty place beside me. “Who’s going to sit there?” I asked.

Taylor shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe just a made-up person.”

“I’m glad you put Eli in,” I said.

“I miss him,” Taylor said.

“I miss him too,” I said.

“I don’t get it,” my younger daughter said.

“What don’t you get?”

“Why just because we lose Alex, we have to lose Eli too.”

As I scrambled the eggs for breakfast, I thought about what Taylor had said. She was right. The fact that Alex and I hadn’t been able to work things out didn’t end my family’s commitment to Eli. Whether Alex wanted me to be involved or not, Eli could use an advocate. I popped two English muffins into the toaster and poured the juice. Church was in an hour, and I had to get cracking because suddenly I had plans for the day.

During the service, I couldn’t keep my mind from wandering. Twice, Angus had to turn the page in our shared prayer book; each time, he favoured me with the chilly raised eyebrow of the pious. But even my son’s theatrical opprobrium couldn’t prevent me from thinking of Eli and of Signe Rayner. By the time the choir and congregation had sung the recessional, I’d made up my mind. In the past month, Justine’s daughters had burned up the wires calling to express their concern about Hilda; an impromptu visit would simply be a charitable way of responding to their interest, and if I had a chance to ask Signe Rayner one or two pointed questions, so much the better.

Taylor and I dropped Angus off at Leah’s, grabbed a quick sandwich at home, then walked across the creek bridge to The Crescents. I’d considered calling Jess’s mother to ask if I could leave Taylor with her, but my daughter loved to visit. There was a less altruistic reason to take Taylor along. She was an exuberant little girl, and I was counting on her enthusiasm to smooth over any uneasiness the Blackwell sisters might have about an unannounced social call.

As soon as we hit Leopold Crescent, Taylor found something worth looking at. A man at the house across the street from Justine’s was out with his leaf-blower. Taylor watched with professional interest until he was finished, then she went over and asked him how his machine worked. He was an amiable, unhurried man who looked like the adviser in an ad for prudent long-term investments, and he explained the intricacies of his leaf-blower with the kind of loving attention to detail that characterizes the born teacher. Taylor was in luck. So was I. After he’d finished explaining, I held my hand out to him.

“Thanks,” I said. “That was great. My daughter’s just started a leaf-raking business, so you’ve given her something to aspire to.”

“It was my pleasure, Mrs.…?”

“Kilbourn,” I said, “Joanne Kilbourn.”

“Darryl Hovanak,” he said. “And if your daughter wants a job working with me next fall, I might just take her on. These old trees are one of the beauties of this neighbourhood, but they do create work.”

“This is such a beautiful street,” I said. “Have you lived here long?”

“Twenty-eight years.”

“Then you knew Justine Blackwell,” I said.

His face clouded. “I did,” he said. “Her death was a loss to us all. She was a good neighbour, and –” he gave me a small self-deprecating smile – “she was almost as house-proud as I am. Her place was always shipshape.”

“Even with all her houseguests?” I said.

He frowned. “Did she have houseguests? I never saw anybody. Justine kept pretty much to herself.”

“Even in the last year?”

Darryl Hovanak eyed me warily. “Mrs. Kilbourn, I hope you’re not from the media.”

“No,” I said. “I teach at the university, but a close friend of mine is also an old friend of Justine’s. My friend was concerned about …” I let the sentence drift.

Darryl Hovanak completed it for me. “About wild parties, that sort of thing? Tell your friend to put her mind at ease. From the day I moved in here till the day she died, Justine Blackwell was the best neighbour a man could ask for.”

Taylor and I rang the doorbell of Justine’s house, but there was no answer. I was just about to give up when Lucy Blackwell came around from the side of the house. She was wearing a flowing ankle-length skirt in swirls of russet and deep green, a loose-fitting deep-green blouse, and, wound around her neck, a scarf of the same flowing material as her
skirt. With her tanned bare feet and her dark honey hair, she looked gypsyish. The effect was dazzling.

“This is a surprise,” she said with a smile that was a beat too slow in coming.

“Surprises are good,” Taylor said agreeably.

“Some are,” Lucy said. She turned to me. “What can I do for you, Music Woman?”

“I need to talk to you,” I said. “All of you. It won’t take long.”

She frowned and took a step towards me. “I don’t think now’s a good time to talk.”

“It’s as good a time as any,” I said. “Are your sisters in the backyard too?” Then, without waiting for an answer, I pushed past her and headed for the garden.

It was obvious from the scene that greeted us that Taylor and I had interrupted a very elegant alfresco luncheon. On the fieldstone patio, three wrought-iron chairs had been arranged around a circular table covered by a snowy linen cloth so full it edges touched the ground. A graceful vase of yellow anemone was in the centre of the table, and at every place setting crystal glasses for water and wine blazed.

A woman carrying a tray came through the French doors that opened onto the patio. I had never met her, but there was no doubt about her identity. Tina Blackwell’s hair was different than it had been in her
TV
days: the shellacked, platinum, anchorwoman ‘do had been replaced by
faux sauvage
spikes in a becoming ash blonde, and her outfit was decidedly youthful: a tiny black mini, black lace-up boots, and retro op-art tights. It was a great look, but it was hard to get past the ruin of Tina Blackwell’s face. The skin around her eyes was ridged with scar tissue and her cheeks looked as if they had been scraped raw. As soon as I saw her, I flashed a glance at Taylor, but she neither stared nor looked away. She kept walking until she was beside Tina.

“This is so pretty,” she said, looking at the table appreciatively. “Is it somebody’s birthday?”

“No, just a fancy lunch,” Tina said, turning her face away in a gesture that seemed poignantly instinctive.

I walked over to her. “I’m Joanne Kilbourn, Hilda McCourt’s friend. This is my daughter, Taylor.”

Tina acknowledged Taylor’s presence with a nod and a small smile. She raised her hand to her ravaged cheek. “I was sorry to hear about Miss McCourt’s accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” I said. “It was an assault, a vicious assault.”

Tina Blackwell looked towards her sister. “I thought you said she had a fall.”