The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn

by Gail Bowen

  He sighed heavily. “You’re right,” he said. “Someone should. Let me go over there and see what I can find out.”

  Detective Hallam walked over to the desk that separated the ones who feared and hoped from the ones who knew. When he showed the nurse his badge, she picked up the phone and made a call. Almost immediately a young man in surgical greens came through the door behind her. The three of them bent their heads together, then Detective Hallam came back to me.

  “It’s not good,” he said. “They’ve done a CT scan. She has a bad concussion, but they’re waiting for someone who specializes in head injuries to come in to see if she needs surgery. She’s also seriously dehydrated, and she’s lost a lot of blood. I don’t think any of her conditions are life-threatening in themselves, it’s the combination, and of course there’s her age to consider.” Unexpectedly, he smiled. “If you should happen to speak to her, don’t tell Miss McCourt I mentioned her age.”

  “I won’t,” I said. Then out of nowhere, the tears came.

  Robert Hallam waited out the storm. When I was finished, I blew my nose and turned back to him. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “It’s the not knowing that makes you crazy,” he said simply. “But they have promised to let us know as soon as they decide about surgery.” He gazed at me assessingly. “Are you up to a few questions?”

  I shook my head. “I told the officers who came to the house everything I knew.”

  His voice was kind. “Well, sometimes people know more than they think they do.”

  At first, it seemed I was not among them, but when Detective Hallam asked me about the croquet mallet that Hilda’s assailant had used, an image, disquieting as a frame in a rock video, flashed through my mind. It was of Eli, whirling his mallet high in the air on the day he and Angus had their crazy game. I didn’t tell Detective Hallam about the memory. Stated baldly, it might have evoked a possibility that was unthinkable, and I banished it.

  Detective Hallam had a few final questions. He had just snapped his notepad shut when a nurse came out to say that Hilda was being moved to intensive care, and I could see her briefly. I was on my feet in a split second. Finally, I was going to get to pass through the double doors.

  Hilda was almost unrecognizable: a prisoner of tubes and of machines calibrating the vital signs of a no-longer-vital life. I bent to kiss her, but I was afraid I’d knock lose some critical piece of the apparatus, so I took her hand in mine. It was icy, and there were pinkish stains on her fingers. Whoever had taken off her favourite Love That Red nail polish had been in a hurry. A doctor came in to examine Hilda. The name on his identification card was Everett Beckles. I stepped back and watched. When he started to leave, I touched his arm. “Is she going to die?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “We’ve done a diagnostic workup, and we’ve decided against neurosurgical intervention.”

  “She doesn’t need an operation,” I said. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

  Dr. Beckles didn’t answer me. He was a black man about my own age, and he looked as exhausted as I felt. “As you can see, we’ve closed the lacerations on your mother’s skull and we’re transfusing her. We’ve given her something to reduce the brain water, and we’ve started anticonvulsant therapy. In intensive care, they’ll monitor her level of consciousness and her vital signs. Everything possible is being done,” he said.

  “Will it be enough?” I asked.

  “We can only hope,” he said. “You might as well go home and get some rest. Your mother’s going to need you in the next few days.”

  I started to correct him, but the words died in my throat. My mouth felt rusty, and I ached. I covered Hilda’s hand with my own. “I’ll be back,” I said.

  As I waited for my cab, I looked up at the looming bulk of Pasqua Hospital. My second hospital of the day. Two hospitals, two cities: joy, sorrow; hope, fear. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled. Its cry, feral, heartsick, and lonely, stirred something in me. Only my superior position on the evolutionary scale kept me from howling too.

  CHAPTER

  8

  It was 1:00 a.m. when I got home. Jill had cleaned up the dog mess in the front hall, but Rose lowered her head in shame when she saw me. I bent down and put my arms around her neck. “It wasn’t your fault, Rose,” I murmured. “Don’t blame yourself.”

  Jill came out to the hall when she heard my voice. She was carrying the Jungian biography of the prime minister I’d been reading. She had her place marked with her finger.

  “How’s Hilda doing?”

  “She still isn’t conscious,” I said. “They sent me home. She has a concussion; she lost a lot of blood and she was dehydrated. The worst thing is that no one knows how long she was lying here. It could have been twenty-four hours.”

  Jill caught the edge in my voice. “Don’t beat yourself up about this, Jo. Much as we want to, we can’t always keep the people we love from harm. Sometimes terrible things just happen.” She put her arm around my shoulder and led me into the family room. “Come on. Let’s have a drink. One of the delights of this particular B and B is its well-stocked bar.”

  I sighed. “Scotch, but make it a light one. I have a nine-thirty class.”

  Jill frowned. “You’re not planning to go to the university, are you?”

  “I am. First-year students need some sense of continuity; besides, I’m afraid Rosalie will yell at me if I cancel out this early in the semester.”

  “The only rationalization I would accept,” she said.

  When Jill came back with our drinks, she handed me mine and took a long pull on hers. “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  “You’ve already done it,” I said. “I’m so grateful you could come over and be with the kids tonight. Did Taylor ever wake up?”

  Jill shook her head. “Nope. She slept through the whole thing. Cops and all.”

  I winced. “Do the police have any theories about what happened here tonight?”

  “If they do, they weren’t telling me.” Jill raised an eyebrow. “Of course, they couldn’t keep me from listening when they were talking to each other.”

  “And?”

  “And they didn’t find any signs of forced entry.”

  Suddenly I felt cold. “You mean Hilda let her attacker in.”

  “It looks that way,” Jill said grimly. “And it also looks as if this wasn’t a robbery. The police asked me to check around and see if anything was missing. I couldn’t spot any glaring aberrations. Your desk was a mess, but your desk is always a mess.”

  “I suppose you shared that little nugget with the police.”

  Jill nodded. “I did, but they didn’t seem very interested. Actually, the one thing they seemed really interested in was some towel. From what they said, I gathered the paramedics must have taken it with them to the hospital.”

  “They did,” I said. “It was one of my kitchen towels. Whoever attacked Hilda had folded it to make a little pillow under her head.”

  “That’s sick.” Jill’s voice was icy.

  “Sick or compassionate. I guess the folded towel could suggest remorse.”

  “A little late for that, wasn’t it?” Jill drained her glass and headed for the liquor cabinet. “Care for a refill?”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “My stomach’s doing nip-ups. Oh, Jill, I’m so glad Taylor didn’t see Hilda. She really loves her. So does Angus.”

  “He gave me a pretty graphic description of the scene you walked into tonight.”

  “My son has had one hell of a weekend. So have we all, come to think of it.” I stood up. “I’m going to grab a shower and get out of this dress. When Angus told me about Mieka, I was so excited, I forgot to pack anything but my toothbrush and a change of underwear. I’ve been wearing this outfit since Saturday afternoon.”

  “ ‘Fashion File’ says that once you get a look that works for you, you should stay with it.”

  “I think I’ve stayed with this one long enough. Jill, I rea
lly am grateful that Angus had you to talk to. Do you think he’ll be okay?”

  “Yeah, beneath all that hip-hop-happenin’ attitude, he’s a pretty sensible kid. He’s worried, of course, but he’s handling it.” She looked at me hard. “How are you doing?”

  “Not great,” I said. “But I’m coping, and I’ll cope even better when I get some sleep.” I finished my drink. A thought hit me. “Jill, is the kitchen …?”

  “Taken care of,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I couldn’t have faced that.” I stood up. My legs felt rubbery. “Would you mind staying here tonight? If I have to go back to the hospital, I’d like somebody to be here with the kids.”

  Jill smiled. “I brought my toothbrush, just in case.”

  I slept fitfully, listening for the phone that, mercifully, did not ring and trying, without success, to banish the images of the night. The pictures of Hilda’s suffering were sharp-edged, but the scene that made my heart pound was one that existed only in my imagination: my old friend, in her cheerful summer outfit, hearing the doorbell, putting down Justine’s papers and walking down the hall to admit her attacker. But who had been on the other side of that door? In the week since Justine’s murder, Hilda had travelled in circles I could only guess at, among men and women whose characters were a mystery to me. For hours, I moved between sleep and consciousness, trying to conjure up the face of her assailant, but it was a futile exercise. By the time my alarm went off, I knew there was no turning away from the truth: any one of a hundred people could have picked up that croquet mallet and tried to end my old friend’s life.

  I dialled the number of Pasqua Hospital. Hilda had made it through the night, but there was no change in her condition. For a few minutes I lay in bed, thinking about the day ahead. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  Jill was at the sink filling the coffeepot when I got back from the park with Rose. She was wearing the same white shorts and black Nationtv sweatshirt she’d had on the night before, but her auburn hair was damp from the shower, and she looked fresh as the proverbial daisy. She glanced at me questioningly.

  “No news,” I said.

  Taylor was sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal in front of her. Her spoon stopped in midair when she saw me. “Wasn’t yesterday the best day? Madeleine is so cute. I can’t wait to tell Ms. Anweiler about her. I hope she’s wearing her diplodocus earrings.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Now, you’d better finish your breakfast. You don’t want to be late. You’re an aunt now, so you have to be responsible.”

  Taylor’s eyes grew large. “I’m an aunt … really?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Mieka’s your big sister, so that makes Madeleine your niece.”

  Taylor’s spoon hit the bowl. “Now I really can’t wait to get to school.”

  Angus came into the kitchen warily, and I caught his eye. “Come out on the deck for a minute, would you?”

  He followed me out to the deck without a word. The air was hazy; the first brittle leaves from our cottonwood tree were floating on the surface of the water in the swimming pool, and the breeze was fresh with the piney coldness of the north.

  Angus’s voice was a whisper. “Did she die?”

  I shook my head. “No, she’s still alive but, Angus, I won’t to lie to you. She may not make it much longer.”

  He turned from me. When he spoke, his voice broke. “It doesn’t seem right,” he said.

  “What doesn’t?”

  He looked around him. “That it can be such a great day when such a lousy thing is happening.”

  When we went back in, the phone was ringing. Jill gave me a questioning look and then reached for it.

  “It’s okay,” I said. Heart pounding, I picked up the receiver, but it wasn’t the hospital calling with news; it was Eric Fedoruk.

  “Hilda McCourt, please,” he said.

  “She’s not available right now.”

  “Is this Mrs. Kilbourn?”

  “Yes,” I said, “it is.”

  “Mrs. Kilbourn, could you have Miss McCourt call me as soon as she gets back? She’s supposed to come in today to discuss Justine’s estate, but she didn’t phone my secretary to arrange a time.” There was an edge of irritation in his voice.

  “She won’t be coming in,” I said.

  “She has to,” he said flatly.

  “Mr. Fedoruk, Hilda doesn’t have to do anything for you. She’s in the intensive-care unit at Pasqua Hospital. Someone came into my house and attacked her.”

  “Is she going to be all right?” The concern in his voice seemed heartfelt, but I was beyond caring about Eric Fedoruk’s feelings.

  “I don’t know if she’s going to be all right,” I snapped. “All I know is that I want you and everybody else connected with Justine Blackwell to stay away from Hilda. Leave her alone. No more making her the final arbiter; no more signing off on responsibilities; no more sending the press to my house. It’s time everyone took responsibility for their own lives. Got it?”

  Eric Fedoruk was stammering out his apology when I hung up. His words cut no ice with me. I was sick of justifications and explanations.

  Jill made a face when I hung up. “Glad I wasn’t on the other end of that,” she said. “Jo, what’s going on here?”

  I gave her the bare bones: Justine’s transformation in the past year; the request she’d made of Hilda; the will which named Hilda as executrix; the warring factions in Justine’s life; the tensions that existed between Justine and all the people she was closest to.

  “And you think what happened to Hilda is connected to Justine’s death?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Ever since you told me the police think Hilda must have known her attacker, I’ve been reeling. But, Jill, there has to be a connection. It’s just too much of a stretch to believe that seven days after Justine’s murder, somebody would take it into their head to try to kill Hilda.”

  Suddenly, Jill frowned. “Jo, is there some sort of guard on Hilda’s hospital room?”

  “I don’t know.” The penny dropped. “Oh God, what if …?” I jumped up, went to the phone, and dialled police headquarters. Detective Hallam was way ahead of me. In the early hours of the morning, he had sent a constable to Pasqua Hospital to monitor everyone who went in or out of Hilda’s room.

  I could feel the relief wash over me. I hung up and turned to Jill. “It’s taken care of,” I said.

  Jill looked thoughtful. “Let’s hope it is. Jo, I don’t like any of this. I especially don’t like the fact that we don’t know who we’re dealing with here.” She picked up her coffee mug, walked to the sink, and rinsed it. Then she turned to face me. “When I get to the office, I’m going to see what I can pull together on the people in Justine’s circle.”

  “You mean biographical stuff?”

  “That and gossip. It’s amazing how few secrets there are in a town this size. I’ll call you tonight, and let you know what I come up with.”

  “Why don’t you come for dinner? I’m going to have to tell Taylor about Hilda, and it would be good if she knew that some things in her world are still the same.”

  She gave me a weary smile. “That’s my role in life,” she said, “the permanent fixture. Six o’clock, okay?”

  “Six o’clock’s perfect,” I said.

  Before I left for the university, I made one more call. I hadn’t left my office number at the hospital. I gave it to the nurse in intensive care and told her I’d come by later in the afternoon. She said to make sure I had some identification; there was a young constable outside Hilda’s door, and she was a tiger.

  The lecture I gave to my first-year students wasn’t the best I’d ever given, but it wasn’t the worst either. When I finished, I went down to the Political Science office to pick up my mail. I was in luck. Rosalie was on the phone. I dropped a note on her desk, saying I could be reached at home for the rest of the day, and made my escape.

  I stopped at the IGA and picked up a roasting chicke
n and some new potatoes. I was putting away groceries when my neighbour came over with two deliveries from the florist. One was addressed to Hilda, the other to me. I opened mine: an arrangement of bronze and yellow mums in an earthenware pitcher. The card read: “With the hope that you’ll accept my most sincere apologies, Eric Fedoruk.” I took the phone off the hook, set the alarm for 2:30 p.m., and went upstairs to bed. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

  It was five to three when I drove into the parking lot at Pasqua Hospital. Angus had a football practice, so he wouldn’t be back till supper time, but Taylor would be home at 3:30. My visit to Hilda would have to be a quick one. To the right of the glass doors of the main entrance, the usual contingent of smokers in blue hospital robes huddled, their intravenous poles looming over them like spectral chaperones. In the lobby, a gaunt young woman with a frighteningly yellow pallor looked on as a little boy showed her an apple he had cut out of red construction paper. The elevator was empty, and there was no one in the corridor as I walked into the intensive-care unit.

  A fine-featured blond man, about the age of my daughter Mieka, sat at a desk in the centre of the nursing area. A small bank of TV monitors was suspended above the desk, and as he made notes on the chart in front of him, the young man kept glancing up to check the screens. The patients’ rooms radiated in a semicircle off the area in which he was sitting. In one of those rooms, a radio was playing country music. The sound was incongruous but oddly reassuring. There was another reassuring note: in front of the room I presumed to be Hilda’s, a uniformed police constable gazed out at the world, alert and ready.

  I waited till the young man at the desk finished with his chart. “I’m here to see Hilda McCourt,” I said.

  “I’ll have to ask for some identification,” he said.

  I took out my driver’s licence and handed it to him. He glanced at it and handed back. “You can go in, Mrs. Kilbourn. Detective Hallam okayed you.” He picked up another chart.

  “Wait,” I said. I leaned forward so I could read the name on his picture ID. “Mr. Wolfe, I wonder if you could tell me how Miss McCourt is doing?”