by Gail Bowen
I ran through a mental list of what needed to be done before I confronted Jill with my suspicions. I had to go back to Dahl Street. I wanted to talk to Marissa Desjardin and I wanted to talk again to some of the people who’d been closest to Kellee in the Politics and the Media seminar. But the first piece in the puzzle was Val Massey’s. I picked up the phone, called Information, got the number of Masluk’s Garage and began to dial.
CHAPTER
13
There was no answer at Masluk’s Garage the first time I called, and there was no answer any of the other times I dialled the Regina Beach number that night. The next morning, before I left for the university, I made a final stab at getting in touch with Val, but I came up empty again. It was puzzling. Val’s father had struck me as the type who wouldn’t shut his business for anything short of the Second Coming.
When I got to the university, Rosalie Norman was waiting for me. Today’s knitted tam was a pretty shade of chestnut.
“That’s a nice colour on you,” I said. “It brings out your eyes.”
She looked at me suspiciously. After my performance the previous day, I could hardly blame her. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” I said. “The police had called me the night before to go downtown and identify Kellee Savage. I guess I was still pretty shaky when I came in here.”
“Next time, if you’re having personal problems, mention it,” she said.
“I will,” I promised meekly.
She handed me an envelope. “Professor Mariani asked me to give you this.”
I looked inside the envelope. It was Ed’s key to the office. “More coals upon my head,” I said.
Rosalie’s blackberry eyes were bright with interest. “Did you two have a fight? It’s never a good idea to share a work space. That’s what they told us at our ergonomics seminar.”
“I guess they were right,” I said, and my tone was so bleak that I startled myself. The sight that greeted me when I opened the door to my office didn’t improve my spirits. On my desk were a florist’s vase filled with irises and a gift beautifully wrapped in iris-covered wrapping paper. I opened the box. It was a paella pan with Barry Levitt’s recipe, and a note in Ed’s neat hand: “For Taylor and for you, with thanks and affection, E.”
I called Ed’s home to thank him, but there was no answer. I called Masluk’s Garage. No answer there, either. Apparently, it was not my day to reach out and touch someone. Just as I was hanging up, Linda Van Sickle and Jumbo arrived.
Linda’s glow had dimmed. Her face was pale and her eyes were dull. “I feel so awful,” she said. “I can’t stop thinking about Kellee. I keep replaying that evening, thinking about all the points where I could have acted differently.”
“Me too,” I said.
“There’s no use retrospecting,” Jumbo said sagely. “That’s what my coach tells us and he’s right. You’ve got to focus on what’s ahead.”
“What’s ahead doesn’t look all that terrific, either,” I said. “But you’re right. Going over what might have been is a pretty profitless exercise. Was there something special you two wanted to talk about?”
“The funeral,” Linda said flatly. “Do you know when it’s going to be? Jumbo and I think we should be there.”
“I agree,” I said. “You should be there. So should a lot of other people – Val, for instance. Have you seen him today?”
Jumbo and Linda glanced at one another quickly.
“No,” Jumbo said. “We haven’t seen Val. He wasn’t in class yesterday and he wasn’t at our eight-thirty seminar this morning.”
Linda hugged herself as if she were cold. “I’m worried about him,” she said. “The news about Kellee is going to devastate him.”
Jumbo frowned. “Well, at least he’s got nothing to feel guilty about. That night at the Owl when Kellee left, he was the only one who –”
Linda touched his arm, as if to hold him back.
Jumbo turned to her, perplexed. “Val tried to do the right thing. Why shouldn’t I talk about it?”
Linda started to respond, but I cut her off. “Jumbo, what did Val do that night?”
“When Kellee left the bar, he went after her. I guess he knew she was in no shape to be out there alone.”
“Why didn’t he stay with her?”
Jumbo shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him again that night. Neither did anybody else. He never came back.”
After Jumbo and Linda left, I went down to the library. The silent rows of books and journals were balm to my raw nerves. It was a relief to have concrete proof that ultimately all information and speculation can be catalogued neatly by the Library of Congress. By the time I got back to my office, the late-afternoon sun was pouring through my window. I put on my coat and packed up my books, then I caught sight of the telephone and decided to give Val’s number one last try.
The voice that answered was male and as wintry as a Prairie January.
“I’m trying to get in touch with Val Massey,” I said.
“He’s not here.”
“You’re not Mr. Masluk, are you?”
“I’m the neighbour.”
“Do you know when the Masluks are expected back? This really is important. I’m one of Val’s teachers at the university, and there’s something I have to talk to him about.”
“They’re at the hospital.”
“What?”
The voice was kinder now, patient in the way of someone giving road directions. “Herman had to take young Val into the General this morning. I don’t want to say any more than that. It’s not my business.”
“Is Val all right?”
“He’s gonna be, but he gave everybody a scare. Now, I think you’d better save the rest of your questions for Herman or for Val when he’s able.”
I called Regina General and asked for Val’s room number. The operator told me it was 517F – the psychiatric unit. The nurse at the charge desk told me that Val wasn’t allowed visitors yet, but that his father was putting together a short list of people who could see Val the next day.
When I turned the Volvo onto the parkway, I was deep in the puzzle of Val Massey’s connection with Kellee’s death. I didn’t see the city bus until it was almost upon me. I hit the brake, and the bus sped on. As it passed me, I saw Tom Kelsoe’s picture on its side panel. He was wearing his stressed-leather jacket, his black hair was tousled, and his eyes burned with integrity. Under the photo, in block letters, was the word “KELSOE!” Then, in smaller letters, “Saturdays at 6:00, only on Nationtv.” There were no pictures of Glayne Axtell or Senator Sam Spiegel. Just of Tom. He’d moved quickly. As I pulled up in front of our house, I knew it was time that I moved quickly, too.
When I walked into the living room, Taylor was kneeling at the coffee table drawing and Angus and Leah were sitting on the rug, drinking tea and playing Monopoly. Angus was in the middle of his usual Monopoly cash-flow problem, and he waved at me absently. “There’s a message from Constable somebody-or-other, but it’s nothing to worry about. You’re just supposed to give her a call. Her number’s on your desk.”
Marissa Desjardin sounded weary. “There are no surprises in the pathology report,” she said. “Death due to a combination of acute alcohol poisoning and exposure. In other words, Kellee Savage drank enough to shut down her major systems, and the weather did the rest.”
I thought of the wicked storm we’d had on the night of March 17. It made sense and yet … “Constable Desjardin, if Kellee was that drunk, how did she get so far?”
“That occurred to us too, and we’re looking into it. The most likely explanation is that once Kellee hit the highway, somebody picked her up and gave her a lift. I’ll bet whoever picked her up regretted it. They’d probably have to fumigate their car. Even after two weeks in the open air, her clothes smelled like a brewery.”
Something about what she said nagged at me. “You mean Kellee’s clothes smelled of beer?”
“They were soaked in it. There was an empty beer
bottle beside her when they found her, and a full bottle in her book bag. Do you have any other questions?”
“No,” I said. “Thanks. That’s all I needed to know.”
As soon as I hung up, I realized why Marissa Desjardin’s reference to the smell on Kellee’s clothes had nagged at me. When Linda Van Sickle described Kellee’s drinking that night, she said she’d been struck by the fact that Kellee had been drinking Scotch. The beer-soaked clothes were another puzzle piece that just didn’t fit. I was more anxious than ever to talk to Val Massey.
It was close to 8:30 when I finally got through to Herman Masluk, and he was ready for me. It seemed that during his time at the hospital, Herman had figured out that the blame for everything that had gone wrong with his son could be laid on the doorstep of the university, and that night the closest he could get to the university was me.
Between the accusations and the invective, a few facts emerged. Sometime during the previous night, Val had tried to commit suicide. Herman Masluk had found his son parked in an old garage they sometimes used for storing vehicles. The door to the garage had been closed, and the motor of Val’s Honda Civic had been running. Val had attached a length of hose to the exhaust and run it through the window on the passenger side into the car’s interior. Mr. Masluk had been out looking for his son all night. It was just good luck that he noticed that the door to the garage hadn’t been closed properly.
The ferocity of Herman Masluk’s anger rocked me; so did the depth of his love for Val. It was apparent from what he said that he felt he’d been engaged in a battle for Val’s soul. The university and all it stood for was anathema to this man who had worked for a lifetime to give his son a profitable business. Val’s suicide attempt had terrified his father, but it had been proof that he was right, that nothing but trouble came from those alien buildings on the plain.
As he talked about Val, I found myself warming to Herman Masluk, and when it seemed his tirade had run its course, I told him about my daughter, Mieka, and the struggle we’d had when she decided to quit university. He listened intently, and soon the two of us moved into a discussion of that age-old topic: the struggle between a parent’s experience and a child’s hope. I told him that when I felt I was floundering with our kids, I’d often found my bearings by remembering C.P. Snow’s line that the love between a parent and a child is the only love that must grow towards separation. He was silent for a moment, then he asked me to write out what I’d just said and bring it along with me to the hospital when I visited Val. Before he said goodbye, Herman Masluk told me that Val had never known his own mother, and that maybe what his son needed was a lady’s perspective. I told him I’d do my best.
After I hung up, I dialled Ed Mariani’s number. I knew Ed would want to know about Val; more selfishly, I welcomed any excuse that would allow me to get my relationship with him back on solid ground. There was no answer at Ed and Barry’s, but I left a message on the machine, thanking them both for the paella dish and telling Ed I’d be in touch.
By the time I got to Taylor’s room to tuck her in, she’d fallen asleep. In the crook of her right arm was the Marc Chagall book; in the crook of her left arm was Benny. When I reached down to move the book, he shot me a look filled with reproach.
“I’ve learned to live with your displeasure, Benny,” I whispered, and I turned out the light and went downstairs. I made myself a pot of tea and put Wynton Marsalis’s recording of Haydn’s Concerto for Trumpet and Orchestra in E-flat Major on the CD player. I had plans to make, and I needed an infusion of clarity. As they did surprisingly often, Haydn and Marsalis did their stuff, and by the time I went to bed, I had the next day pretty well mapped out. The last thing I did before I turned out the light was drop Tom Kelsoe’s book, Getting Even, into my bag.
If I had believed in omens, I would have found plenty to reassure me in the weather on Saturday morning. The sky was blue, the sun was bright, and I could feel the possibilities of birdsong and wildflowers in the air. Even the house on Dahl Street looked less grim.
As it had been on Tuesday, the front door was propped open with a brick, but this time when I pounded on the inside door, a girl about Taylor’s age opened it and let me in. Flushed with good luck, I ran upstairs and knocked on the door to number 3. A good-looking native kid with a brushcut answered, and as he gave me the once-over, I was able to look past his shoulder and get a glimpse of life in apartment 3 on a Saturday morning. The television was blaring cartoons, and a boy, who judging from his looks was the older brother of the boy who had answered the door, was sitting on the couch. Beside him was the woman I had frightened so badly when I’d come in unannounced on Tuesday. Today, she had a pink ribbon tying back her long dark hair, and, as I watched, the boy reached up and smoothed it with a gesture of such tenderness that I felt my throat catch.
Across the room was the blonde who’d thrown me out. Today she was in blue jeans, a denim jacket, and her Nancy Sinatra boots. She was wholly engrossed in the television. Apparently, she’d been expecting a delivery, because when I came in, she gestured towards the door without looking up. “My purse is on the table, Darrel,” she said. “Give the kid a nice tip.”
“It’s somebody else,” Darrel said. As soon as she heard his words, the blonde woman’s head swivelled towards me. She might have looked like a superannuated superstar Barbie, but she moved like the wind. Within seconds, she was so close to me that our noses were almost touching. “Teacher,” she said in a voice heavy with exasperation. “This is Saturday. No school today. Go home.”
I stood my ground. “I want you to listen to something,” I said. “If you decide you don’t want to hear what I’m saying, stop me. I’ll leave and, I promise you, I won’t bother you again.”
Without waiting for her answer, I pulled Getting Even out of my purse and started to read the story of Karen Keewatin and her sons. I didn’t get far before the blonde reached out and took the book from me.
“Let’s go out in the hall,” she said. “My name’s Bernice Jacobs, and you and I got things to talk about.”
Half an hour later, I was back on the sidewalk outside the apartment on Dahl Street. I was edgy but exhilarated; Bernice Jacobs had not only confirmed my theory about what had happened to Kellee Savage, she’d come up with some theories of her own.
When I saw the little girl who’d let me into the building throwing a ball against the side wall of the apartment, I called out and thanked her. What I had learned from Bernice Jacobs was terrible, but knowledge is a sturdier weapon than ignorance, and I was grateful I didn’t have to go into the battle ahead unarmed.
I was halfway down the block when I heard the kitten’s thin mewing. I almost kept walking. Taylor was the cat person in our family, and I had enough on my plate. But the image of the kerosene-soaked animal I’d seen the first time I’d come to Dahl Street was a powerful spur. I turned and retraced my steps.
The little tortoise-shell had crawled in between two garbage cans in the alley beside the apartment building where Bernice lived. When I moved one of the cans to get a closer look, the kitten struggled to get away. It didn’t get very far. It was dragging its right front leg and, as I watched, it collapsed from the effort. I went back to my car and got the blanket we kept in the trunk in case we got stuck in a blizzard. After I’d wrapped the cat up, I went back to the building on Dahl Street. The little girl was still throwing her ball against the side wall. I could hear her voice, singsonging through the same ball chant I’d used forty years earlier: “Ordinary, moving, laughing, talking, one hand, the other hand, one foot, the other foot.” When she dropped the ball just before “clap in the front,” I made my move. I pulled the blanket back so she could see the kitten’s face.
“Do you know who this belongs to?” I asked.
She glanced at it without interest. “It don’t belong to nobody.”
“Are you sure?”
She sighed heavily. “It lives on the street,” she said, and she turned away and threw her ball a
gainst the wall. “Ordinary, moving …,” she began. I covered the cat again and headed for the Volvo. It was 10:30; our vet stayed open till noon on Saturday mornings.
Dr. Roy Crawford had been our vet for more than twenty-five years. He was a gentle, unflappable man, but he winced when he looked at the cat I’d brought in.
“Can you do anything?” I asked.
He looked at me hard. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether this animal has a home to go to when I’m finished. That leg’s going to need surgery. There’s no point operating on this animal if it’s going to be euthanized in a couple of weeks. Your decision, Mrs. K.”
“It’ll have a home,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “With you?”
“Where else?” I said. “Incidentally, is it a male or a female?”
Roy Crawford leaned over and checked out the cat’s equipment. “Male,” he said. Then he smiled. “There’s going to be hell to pay when Benny has to abdicate the throne.”
“Benny won’t abdicate,” I said. “He believes he’s there by divine right. But he is going to have to learn to share the crown.”
By the time I’d signed the papers at Roy’s, it was past 11:00. Herman Masluk had said that since the only two names on Val’s visitors’ list were his and mine, I could go to the hospital whenever it suited me. Eleven o’clock seemed as good a time as any.
I parked in the lot beside the General, made my way past the inevitable cluster of patients and practitioners huddled around the doorway smoking, and headed for the elevators. When I stepped out on the fifth floor, I was facing a desk and a nurse who looked like a defensive lineman. He had a lineman’s professional warmth, too, but when I’d finally satisfied him that my name was on his list, he looked almost cordial. “Can’t be too careful,” he growled.
