by Vicki Delany
Joanna sighed. She wanted to protect Tiffany but she was not about to lie to the police. She had read somewhere that they never asked a question they didn’t know the answer to…or was that a lawyer? “I found her in Hope River the next morning, about ten o’clock. And drove her home.”
“So she was out all night?”
“She told me she was, yes.”
“Thank you. I was just wondering. We found a gun on your property, by the way. You haven’t lost one, have you?”
“Of course not. I don’t own a gun. Never had and never will,” she felt obliged to add. “Do you think that it’s the murder weapon?”
“We won’t know until we’ve run some tests. But it hasn’t been in the woods for long, and it’s clean and recently used. So I would say that’s very likely.” Erikson stared at Joanna. Scott and Reynolds stood by, watching. The silence was so thick it was almost a physical presence.
“Well, then I guess that proves Tiffany Jordan couldn’t have done it,” Joanna said with considerable relief. She forgot that Tiffany had not been accused.
“Why do you think that?” Erikson answered, cool and crisp as ever.
“Well, the gun, I mean.” Joanna fumbled for the words. “This is Hope River, for heaven’s sake. Fourteen year old girls don’t exactly pack heat in Northern Ontario, you know.”
“Unfortunately, we never know these days what fourteen year old girls, or any girls for that matter, are carrying, or of what they are capable,” Erikson replied coldly. “It’s rather an unfortunate byproduct of feminism.”
A life-long feminist, Joanna bristled at the comment. “Perhaps,” she said, “but along with that goes the willingness and the ability to defend themselves rather than humbly submit to a ‘fate worse than death’ and I rather think that’s a fair trade. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Erikson lifted one pale eyebrow. “It may well be from your perspective, but it makes my job considerably more difficult.”
Joanna stretched herself to her maximum height, but she still came no where near to matching the inspector’s imposing Viking form. “Rather my life than your job.”
“We’ll be in touch, Ms. Hastings.” Erikson turned and left the cabin without another word. Reynolds nodded to Joanna, said good night to Scott and followed.
“Goddammit all.” Joanna stomped her foot. “Why have I gotten myself mixed up in this business?”
“I think maybe I should be going,” Scott said.
Joanna looked at him. He really was a good-looking man. “If you don’t mind,” she said reluctantly.
“I understand.” He bent down to kiss the top of her head and shut the door on his way out.
Chapter 16
Joanna was a city girl. Until now she had lived her entire life either in downtown Toronto or out in the suburbs. In those environments people kept to themselves, for better or for worse.
When she was first starting both her career and her marriage, Joanna and her husband Mike lived in a high rise apartment smack in the center of downtown. She praised city living to anyone who would listen: the closeness of the shops, the theater, the museums, the galleries. Friends. On a bitter Canadian winter’s day you could live your whole life and not once venture outside. True civilization. But she knew her neighbors only from standing together waiting for an elevator.
One Christmas they were invited over for a seasonal drink by the couple at the end of the hall. Joanna was entertained all evening by the wife’s descriptions of the charity ball she organized, single-handedly of course, while the husband attempted to seduce Mike in the back bedroom. The canap�s were delectable, the wine was excellent and the music superb. They declined to attend the New Year’s Party.
When she was a young mother, at home looking after three small children, they lived in a row of brand-spanking new homes all cut like cookies from the same cutter with not a tree over five feet tall to be seen. She nodded at her neighbors over chain-link fences on weekends in the summer when they were all out fertilizing and planting and weeding their tiny lots. They discussed the weather and how their gardens were coming and insisted that she drop over for a glass of wine on the deck “anytime.” But no firm invitation was ever forthcoming and she was always reluctant to just drop in on anyone. Her only friend lived two blocks away, a woman she met by chance in the park one day when their toddlers got into a fight over who should be first to climb the ladder to the slide. Rare was the invitation to neighbors’ parties, and then only because the party-giver invited everyone in earshot lest the uninvited call the police to complain about the noise.
One day Mike announced that he was leaving. Family life was not for him, he told her. She and the children could have the house-he understood that children needed a stable environment. She was grateful, truly, for his generosity until she found out that he was living with the 22-year-old daughter of one of the biggest mining magnates in Canada.
The party invitations, rare as they were, dried up the minute Joanna attained the status of “single mother.” Whether it was because the wives were afraid she would be after their husbands (as if she wanted someone’s leftovers) or that they just didn’t know what to do with her (maybe the numbers at the dinner table would be off), Joanna never found out.
But her playground friend stuck with her, and they remained fast through it all until the friend died of breast cancer at the all-too-young age of 31. Brokenhearted, her husband took his children and moved to Calgary seeking the support of his huge extended family and she never heard from him again.
Like everyone brought up in a big city, Joanna was raised on stories about the legendary friendliness, and inquisitiveness, of country neighbors. She only half believed it until she walked into the grocery store for the first time after the discovery of Luke’s body.
Nancy was right. The culprit was discovered, tried and found guilty.
Joanna stood by the pile of shiny red tomatoes, trying to find one or two that, it being December, looked like they actually matured in the pleasant fall sunshine. A woman she had never laid eyes on before slid up to her.
“So sorry to hear about poor, dear Luke,” the woman said, beady little black eyes looking her up and down.
Joanna smiled in agreement. Who the hell are you? she wondered.
“The poor dear man.” The woman’s voice dropped, her eyes moved closer together. She whispered, “Won’t be long before they charge her, I hear.”
“Charge who?” Joanna asked innocently.
“Why that Tiffany, of course. Maude’s granddaughter. I hear that her jacket was actually found with the body. Imagine.” She shivered with delight at the thought.
Another shopper joined them. Obviously the same unimaginative stylist cut their hair. Probably a two for one discount, Joanna thought meanly.
“Poor Maude,” the newcomer agreed. “It must be so hard on her.”
“But there are lots of those jackets around.” Joanna clutched her tomatoes and protested feebly. “They’re very common, you know.”
“Well, I hear that the police are about to arrest Tiffany,” the first woman announced. Her multiple chins shook in indignation.
“Fat lot of good that will do. These young offenders, they get away with murder. Let me tell you.”
“Actually, that’s not true,” Joanna interrupted. “Are you aware that young offenders actually get more jail time than adults convicted of the same offence?”
The women stared at her, not expecting a bit of disagreement. To her dismay a third woman joined them. “Don’t know why they haven’t arrested her by now.”
“Maybe because they haven’t any proof,” she snarled. Despite the heat of her near-boiling temper a chill settled over the produce aisle. Belatedly, the women realized that Joanna was not agreeing with them. In unison they lifted their chins and sniffed.
“Well, we all know that you’re friends with her,” the first woman said. “Everyone knows she gets her computer lessons from you.” Her tone made “computer lessons” s
ound like “urban terrorism lessons.”
“Girl like that doesn’t need computer lessons. She’d be better off learning how to cook and clean and keep herself looking nice. Have you seen her hair?”
They all agreed Tiffany’s hair was frightful.
Her mother’s daughter, Joanna had never knowingly said a nasty thing to a person in her life. But all the memories of a troubled teenager and her confused and angry friends flooded back and broke through a lifetime of self-control. “Perhaps you mean that she should learn how to be just like you? God help us all. That would be a fate worse than death, I’m sure.” She grabbed a handful of bruised tomatoes, shoved them into her cart and backed out down the aisle.
The three women stared after her, mouths hanging open like happy whales feeding on a huge batch of krill.
In a black rage Joanna grabbed packages of Fruit Loops and Pop Tarts off the counter and plunked them into her cart to join the tomatoes.
She neatly sideswiped Jack Miller who stood stone faced and stiff blocking her path at the end of the aisle. Joanna glared at him and struggled to maneuver her cart out of the way. He held his ground, watching while she wrestled with the unwieldy shopping cart. The back right wheel was sticky so that she was forced to press down on one hand to overcompensate and wrench it back into line. Jack stood firm, his expression blank as he watched her struggle with the cart. It was all she could do not to fling her purchases to one side and storm out of the store. She could always drive to North Ridge and shop there. But, determined to retain some last shred of dignity, she unloaded the cart onto the conveyer belt at Nancy’s cash register.
“Hi, how are you today?” Nancy said, cheerful as ever. For a change her hair was dyed an attractive auburn.
“Fine, thank you.” Joanna spoke through gritted teeth.
Nancy dropped her voice as she continued checking things through. “That Roberta McCallum. She hasn’t said a word of sense since nineteen-forty-nine. Don’t pay no attention to her. And a lot of the ladies in this town, they just follow along like a bunch of parrots repeating whatever Roberta says, just because her husband owns the best piece of farming land this side of Gravenhurst.” Nancy laughed. “And that ain’t saying much.” She packed Joanna’s purchases carefully into plastic bags, emblazoned with the store’s logo. “Give Maude and Tiffany my regards, now.”
Joanna smiled at Nancy. “How is your husband…Bob, is it?” Overcome by the woman’s sympathy she struggled to find something nice to say.
Nancy smiled back. “Bill, actually. But that’s okay. He’s just fine, thank you. And the kids are doing real well. Coming up to exams soon, you know. These exams are real important for my Jenny. The results go to the university.”
Joanna was about to ask where Jenny hoped to go, but at that moment Roberta McCallum and her posse pulled into the end of the line and with a shrug of resignation, Nancy turned to the new arrivals and smiled brightly.
Joanna placed her packages back into the cart for the trip out to the parking lot. A box of Pop Tarts looked up at her. What on earth am I going to do with those? Her stomach cringed.
The next morning, she was struggling to find something barely edible to eat. Her cupboard was almost empty. It contained not much, in fact, but bruised tomatoes, Pop Tarts and fruity cereal. The very thought made her teeth ache. For breakfast she was reduced to two slices of stale brown bread toasted with a bit of supermarket jam.
She was working like a demon and the project for Fred was gradually nearing completion. A few other people had called over the past few weeks, given her name by either Maude or Scott, to ask her to do small jobs for them. Install software, a bit of training, fix minor problems or point out a more efficient way to use their computers. All easy and stress-free and a welcome bit of much needed money.
By lunchtime her stomach was growling in an attempt to attract her attention. She thought fondly of the days when she could just dial up pizza or deli sandwiches and carry on working through lunch. She remembered that Nancy had told her they would deliver. She made a quick mental list of all the things left behind on her last shopping expedition and called the store. Nancy took the order over the phone, and promised delivery in one hour.
It was closer to three before Jack pulled into the driveway and carried her box up to the front door.
“This is great,” she said, opening the door and showing Jack into the kitchen. “I must order this way more often.”
“There’s a charge, you know.” He handed her a slip of paper and held out his hand.
“Well, yes. I do know that.” Joanna read the bill. “Let me get my purse. Just a moment.” She hurried into the bedroom and rifled through her jewelry box for some bills.
When she returned to the living room Jack was standing by her desk. He watched her eyes as he casually dropped her black address book back on the desktop. He had been going through her things.
She handed him the money, holding back the tip she was about to offer, and thanked him tightly.
Without a word Jack left the cabin, pulling the door shut behind him. Joanna watched as the store van backed out of her driveway and disappeared down the road.
Chapter 17
Tiffany arrived promptly for her next Friday afternoon lesson. She carried a battered, black school bag over one shoulder containing, Joanna assumed, her night things. The bag was thickly marked with the names of popular heavy metal groups interspersed by swear words and death symbols. Joanna found the bag unsettling and pushed it under the desk.
The girl had reverted to her “I don’t give a fuck” appearance and attitude. Joanna just hoped she was possessed of enough common sense to drop the act in the presence of the police, but she doubted it.
They worked on Mrs. Beeton for a short while. Joanna soon realized that the typing tutorial was only boring Tiffany and was no longer necessary now that the girl knew the basics.
“I think we can leave Mrs. Beeton for a while, you’re coming along so well. Have you been working on the computer at school?”
“A little bit,” Tiffany mumbled out of the side of her mouth as if it were something of which to be ashamed. “They let me back in the computer class when Grandma phoned and told them that I was taking private lessons.”
“That’s great!”
“It’s stupid. I really hate it. I hate the teacher so much-she’s such a miserable old bitch. She can’t stand me. She didn’t want me in her stupid class, but the principal said that she had to have me.”
Joanna nodded dryly. Not too difficult to image why the teacher doesn’t like Tiffany. “Well, I thought that we would do something more practical now. I’d like to teach you a word-processing package. Word is the most popular. Do you know anything about it?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s used mostly for writing documents. Letters, school papers, and things like that. You will find it very useful for doing essays and reports for school.”
“But I don’t have a computer. And I don’t do essays and garbage like that.”
“Oh, I would have thought that in Grade nine you would have projects to do?”
“I didn’t say we didn’t get projects. I just said I don’t do them.”
“Oh, I see.” And she did see. This was all ground she had covered with her own rebellious daughter. You can make the child go to school, but you can’t make them do the work if they don’t want to. Feeling that any effort on her part would be useless, she nevertheless forced a bright smile and struggled on. “Well, if you would like to, you can use my computer sometimes. Just phone ahead and make sure that I don’t have any urgent work to get done.”
They worked for a couple of hours as the winter darkness deepened and the mercury in the thermometer hanging by the front door continued its downward progression.
Tiffany leaned back in her chair and stretched. “Don’t you think I’ve done enough? Can we play Tomb Raider now?”
“All right, you’ve done very well.”
Tiffany beamed
at the compliment. It was amazing, Joanna thought (and not for the first time), how these teenaged girls could so quickly drop the tough girl persona and become just a tousled little child eager for praise.
“You play for a while. I’ll start the dinner.”
Before beginning the game Tiffany went outside for a smoke. Although the girl protested furiously every chance she got, Joanna had flatly forbidden smoking in the cabin, regardless of the weather. While chopping onions and green peppers for the meat sauce and placing a heavy pot of water on to the stove to boil, like every non-smoker, she marveled at what a smoker would go through for their regular fix.
Tiffany stood under the light on the front porch, shivering in her coat (probably an old one of Maude’s-the only thing available to replace the much sought after Bulls jacket), puffing furiously. The light cast a halo around her, edges softened by the falling snow. Except for the demon weed, she looked like a lost child, cold and alone in the winter darkness. Or maybe a 14-year-old Madonna caught in a beam of heavenly light. Without warning Joanna’s eyes filled with tears and a sob caught in her throat. Whether for her Alexis, or for Tiffany or maybe even for her own lost youth she didn’t know, but unbidden, warm, salty tears drifted silently down her cheeks. With a gasp she pulled her hand off the handle of the old iron pot as it heated up. She shook one burning hand and with the other wiped the tears from her face.
Cigarette finished, Tiffany stomped back into the cabin, teeth chattering, nose and cheeks a painful red.
“It’s really cold out there, even colder than when I arrived. The snow is sure falling now and the wind is something fierce. I think it’s going to storm tonight. Glad I’m not out in it.” Tiffany crossed the room quickly to warm her hands by the old stove.
“Boots off in the house,” Joanna reminded her.
Tiffany threw Joanna a dirty look but pulled the Doc Martins off and kicked them across the room.
They dined on spaghetti with meat sauce, salad and store-delivered chocolate cake for desert. Joanna poured herself a glass of wine but refused to share with Tiffany. The girl’s protests were only half-hearted.
