by Gail Bowen
I decided to begin my simplification by logging some pool time. The sun was high as I walked through the leaves to the swimming pool. The water was warm, and I didn’t hesitate before I dove in and gave myself over to the mindless pleasure of swimming laps. If I’m lucky, I can lose myself in swimming, and that day I was lucky. When I finally noticed Keith standing by the edge of the pool, he was laughing.
“I was beginning to think I was going to have to jump in there to get your attention.”
“What are you doing in Regina?”
“I came down to see you. Is this a private pool party, or can anybody join?”
“Got your suit?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “Now that I’m out of politics, I’m turning over a new leaf. This morning I bought the first bathing suit I’ve owned in twenty-five years. And I brought it with me, because I heard the weather in Regina was unbelievable, and I thought you and I might find time to do this very thing.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go in the house and jump into my new Speedo.”
“The Speedo I don’t believe.”
“And you’re wise not to. The only suits left on the clearance table were depressingly sombre and modest, but they were cheap.”
For half an hour, Keith and I swam laps, silently and companionably. Then we collapsed on the lounge chairs and soaked up the sun. For the first time in days, I felt my nerves unknot completely. It was a nice sensation. Keith was telling me some unrepeatable gossip about our ex-premier, and we were both roaring with laughter when I glanced over and saw Alex standing by the side of the house.
“I rang the doorbell,” he said. “I thought you might be back here.”
I jumped up and started towards him. “Alex, I’m so glad to see you. Come in and sit down.” My voice was all wrong – falsely hearty. “Keith just got here,” I finished weakly.
Alex looked over at Keith, then back at me. “Then I won’t intrude.”
Keith was on his feet. “Why don’t I go inside and give you two a chance to talk.”
Alex’s eyes never left my face. “Thanks,” he said, “but I just came by to ask about Hilda. Bob Hallam mentioned her case today. I guess he assumed I knew about it. You should have said something, Jo.”
“You never gave me a chance,” I said.
For a beat, we gazed at each other in silence. I could see the anger in Alex’s eyes, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. “It’s pretty obvious you’re moving along with your life. I’ll let you get back to it.” He nodded in Keith’s direction, then disappeared through the side gate.
I didn’t go after him. I stood frozen, listening till I heard the car door shut and the motor roar. Finally, Keith came over and put his arm around my shoulder. “I’m not making a pass,” he said. “The sun’s gone in. You’ve got goosebumps.”
I leaned into him. “I’m glad you’re here,” I said.
“So am I.”
He took my hand, and we walked into the house. As soon as we were inside, Keith took me in his arms and kissed me: a lover’s kiss, not a friend’s. It wouldn’t have ended there, except that just as his hand slid over my breast, the front door slammed. Taylor was home. Keith smoothed my hair and smiled. “Does anyone on earth have lousier timing than me?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
He shrugged. “Well, be warned. I’m going to keep trying till I get the timing right.”
That night after dinner, Keith flew back to Saskatoon. Still shaken by the afternoon’s events, I grabbed my bathing suit off the clothesline, changed into it, and headed for the pool again. As I knifed through the quiet water, I tried to focus on my grandmother’s axiom for troubled times: forget the experience, remember the lesson. Lap after lap, I worked at bringing perspective to the day, but it was no use. Try as I might, I could neither forget nor remember. When I finally gave up and went to the house, I had found neither peace nor insight. The best I could hope for was distraction. I changed into my sweats, opened a bottle of Great Western beer, picked up the folder of material Jill had brought, and started reading.
I began with the guest list of Justine’s last party. Jill had thoughtfully provided the rap sheets for a number of the merrymakers. The list of their offences against the Crown was impressive: break-and-enter, forgery, hit-and-run, counterfeiting, vehicular homicide, fraud, armed robbery, manslaughter, and assaults of every possible kind with every conceivable weapon.
Angus would have characterized the men and women among whom Justine Blackwell elected to spend the last hours of her life as a bad-ass group, but bad-ass or not, Justine had believed she owed them reparation. Much of the information Jill submitted was photocopied, but she had handwritten the notes from her phone calls and interviews, and the picture of Justine that emerged from these notes was of a woman prepared to use every resource she had to make amends.
According to Jill’s sources, Justine had supplied the down payment for the building on Rose Street that became Culhane House, and she was making the mortgage payments. She’d promised a substantial renovation of the building to make it suitable as a kind of residential halfway house; she had guaranteed that any contractor who did the work would have to use ex-prisoners as part of their labour force. There had been more personal philanthropies: she had signed herself on as a guarantor of loans; she had paid instalments of tuition; she had written cheques to dentists and clothing stores and used-car rental agencies. But from Jill’s information, one thing was clear. Justine might have been atoning, but she was atoning with a tight hand on the purse-strings. Except for small gifts, all Justine’s bequests were conditional. With just a few well-placed calls, Justine could have put an end to Operation Reparation.
Wayne J. Waters’ empire was a shaky one. And according to Jill’s notes, Wayne J. was not a man to handle stress or reversal of fortune equably. He had started out as a kid doing break-and-enter, moved up through the ranks to robbery and armed robbery, and finished as a generalist, a jack of all illicit trades. He prided himself on never becoming involved with drugs or prostitution, but those seemed to be the only lines he refused to cross. He was immensely strong and enormously glib. No one Jill had talked to could say with any certainty whether Culhane House was a genuine attempt at altruism or just another scam. On one point, all Jill’s sources were in agreement: despite his seeming conversion, Wayne J. Waters was a very dangerous man.
I was relieved to put his file aside and pick up Eric Fedoruk’s. There was nothing in it to make the pulse race. An illustrated magazine article chronicled his smooth transition from hockey player to successful lawyer. There was a nice photo of him with Justine, whom the caption characterized as his childhood neighbour and enduring mentor. From Jill’s notes, it appeared Eric Fedoruk was one of those lucky people who move from accomplishment to accomplishment. His two passions were the law and his Ducati Mostro, which Jill pointed out helpfully was a motorcycle. He had never married. “A possibility for me here,” Jill had written in her large looping hand. “I’ve always longed to hop on one of those Eurobrutes and ride off into the sunset at 160 kph.”
There wasn’t much in the photocopied material about Lucy Blackwell’s life that I didn’t already know, but Jill’s notes contained a surprise. After her father’s death, Lucy had attempted suicide. She had been hospitalized briefly, and when she was released, she headed for San Francisco. Within months, she had a song on the charts and, apparently, she’d never looked back. Jill said her source was utterly reliable, but to my mind the story raised a number of questions, not the least of which was why Justine would allow a vulnerable sixteen-year-old to strike out on her own. It was puzzling, but when it came to Justine’s life, it seemed there were many puzzles. I tried to remember if there were any suicide references in Lucy’s famously autobiographical songs, but I came up blank. Like Wayne J. Waters, Lucy Blackwell had apparently decided there were areas where it
was wise to draw the line.
There were other troubling revelations in Lucy’s file. For one thing, Jill’s source said that Lucy had been forced to finance The Sorcerer’s Smile herself. The movers and shakers in the music industry had made it known that they saw Lucy as yesterday’s singer, and that they had no interest in backing a CD boxed set that encapsulated her personal history in music. The rejection must have bruised Lucy’s ego, but her decision to go ahead with the project had hit her in the pocketbook.
During the heady years of the eighties, Lucy had built a home in Nova Scotia. Jill had included a photo spread from InStyle magazine on Lucy at home in the oceanfront hideaway she had designed herself. The house was fanciful, idiosyncratic, and, to my mind, beautiful. In the article, Lucy had been lyrical about what her home on the ocean meant to her, but last year she had sold it, a sacrifice to her determination that her musical legacy would be preserved. The final photograph in the article was a close-up of Lucy exultant as the waves crashed behind her on the beach. Her smile was dazzling, but as I closed the folder, I found myself wondering about the pain behind the smile.
On the Post-it note she had stuck to the eight-by-ten glossy of Tina Blackwell, Jill had scrawled a three-word question: “See the problem?” I could. On the few occasions I’d caught Tina on TV, she’d struck me as the epitome of glazed perfection: flawless makeup, hair teased and sprayed to look casual, classic jewellery, sleekly fitted jackets. In the photograph in front of me, Tina Blackwell was still an attractive woman, but even the benevolent hand of the retoucher hadn’t been able to erase the inevitable signs of aging: the softening of the jawline, the droop of the eyelid, the tiny lines around the corners of her eyes, the feathering of her lips. The printed material on Tina was minimal. Jill had included three items: a copy of the announcement CJRG had made when they fired Tina, or in their sly corporatespeak, “freed her to pursue other opportunities”; a copy of the c.v. Tina had submitted to Nationtv, and her cover letter to Jill offering to take “even a very junior position if one is available.” CJRG had referred to Tina as “a longtime employee.” In fact, she had been there for more than twenty years, her entire working life. With her surgically scarred face and her one-line résumé, it was hard to imagine what was ahead for her.
I almost put the material on Signe Rayner aside without reading it. So far, when it came to lousy lives, Justine Blackwell’s daughters were two for two, and I wasn’t eager for more sad revelations. But if I was going to resolve Hilda’s unfinished business with Justine Blackwell, I had to be resolute. I opened the file, and as soon as I saw the first newspaper clipping, I was riveted. Dr. Signe Rayner was a woman with a past. The clippings were three years old, and they were from the Chicago papers. The parents of an adolescent boy Signe had been treating sued her after the boy committed suicide. According to trial transcripts, while the young man was under hypnosis Signe had returned him to an infantile state, and encouraged him to see her as his mother.
Signe’s lawyers had earned their fees. They established that the dead boy’s father, an architect, had recently declared bankruptcy, and that the mother had her own lengthy history of psychiatric problems. A clutch of Signe’s professional colleagues had testified that, while her approach was unorthodox, it was not unethical. They supported Signe’s contention that she was attempting to help the boy return to the genesis of his problems and that, in urging him to consider her as his mother, she was simply offering herself as an ally in his battle against his demons. The boy’s parents lost their case. Signe Rayner was cleared of wrongdoing.
Despite her exoneration, she left Chicago, moved back to Regina, and began again. It was a puzzling coda to a court victory. A suspicious mind might have theorized that there had been some sort of prior agreement between Signe and her professional colleagues in Chicago, a kind of quid pro quo in which they agreed to support her in court if she agreed to remove herself from their jurisdiction.
I reread the account of Signe’s bizarre relationship with the dead boy, then I picked up the telephone and dialled Alex’s number. If Shakespeare was right about past being prologue, Alex needed to take another look at the doctor he was trusting to take his nephew to the brink and back again.
CHAPTER
10
I tried Alex’s number until 11:00, when, exhausted, anxious, and furious at his refusal to have an answering machine, I turned out the lights and went to bed. Twice during the night, I woke up, rolled over, and dialled again. There was still no answer. The next morning I made a pact with myself; I wouldn’t even attempt to call until after Rose and I had our walk and I’d showered and dressed for the day. Like most bargains with a fool, my compact got me nowhere. When Rose and I got back, I dialled Alex’s apartment, and there was still no answer. Undeterred, I made another pact. The kids loved James Beard’s pecan coffee cake, and I hadn’t made one since the beginning of summer. I’d stay away from the phone until I’d made a coffee cake and put it in the oven.
My homage to James Beard paid off, but not with the dividend I’d expected. By the time Taylor and Angus straggled down to breakfast, the kitchen smelled the way a kitchen in a well-run home is supposed to smell in the morning, and I’d decided that calling Alex was a dumb idea. He was a man who operated on fact, not theory, and my concerns about Signe Rayner were based on conjecture. Calling him would make me look hysterical. More seriously, it would make me look desperate. Whatever lay ahead for Alex and me, I didn’t want him to remember me as a woman who grasped at any excuse to ring up her ex-lover.
After we’d eaten, I felt better. I’d made a world-class coffee cake, and I hadn’t made a fool of myself. Not a bad record to rack up before 7:30 a.m. But praiseworthy as my restraint might be, it didn’t change the fact that I still needed answers, not just about Signe Rayner, but about other members of Justine’s circle of family, friends, and acquaintances. Detective Hallam might not have believed that Hilda had been attacked because someone Justine knew was desperate to get at her financial papers, but I did.
I was certain that Hilda’s assailant was connected somehow to Justine, but most of the people in Justine’s life were unknown quantities to me. Fortunately, as I’d been measuring out the cinnamon and butter for the coffee cake, I’d come up with a candidate who might be able to help me fill in the blanks. Eric Fedoruk had grown up next door to the Blackwells; he had considered Justine his mentor, and he had been her lawyer. If I was going to unearth the truth about Justine’s life, he might just be my man.
For a successful lawyer, Eric Fedoruk was surprisingly accommodating. When I called his home number, he didn’t miss a beat before offering to meet me at his office within the hour. The address he gave me was on the top floor of one of the twin towers at the end of Scarth Street Mall. I was early enough to get a parking spot a block away, but as I walked towards his building, the morning sun bounced off its glass face, blinding me. I hoped it wasn’t an omen. There had been few occasions in my life when I’d been more aware of the need to see clearly.
Eric Fedoruk was waiting for me when I stepped off the elevator. His black motorcycle boots had been replaced by nutmeg calfskin loafers, his fawn suit looked like Armani, and his buttercup-yellow tie demanded attention. When he offered his hand, I was glad I wasn’t being billed by the hour.
“I was relieved to get your call,” he said, as he steered me smoothly past the firm’s receptionist into his office. It was spacious and airy, filled with natural light from two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows. The other two walls were filled with photographs and hockey memorabilia. Eric Fedoruk led me past his desk and the client chairs which faced it to a trio of easy chairs that had been arranged around a low circular table in the corner of the room. He held out a chair for me.
“Can I get you anything before we begin?” he asked.
“Thanks,” I said, “I’m fine.” I leaned towards the window. “What a spectacular view of the city.”
“It is, isn’t it?” he said. “And it’s beautiful i
n every season.” He made a face. “I sound like I’m running for President of the Chamber of Commerce.”
“You’ve got my vote,” I said. “I think Regina’s a great place to live.”
He grinned. “It’s nice to be having a civil conversation. You know, we are on the same side in this.”
“Whose side is that?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Justine’s. In your case, Miss McCourt’s, but she was on Justine’s side. Now, since we are allies, can we graduate to first names?”
“That’s fine with me, Eric,” I said.
“Good.” His eyes, the grey of an autumn sky before a storm, met mine. “Now, why don’t you tell me what brought you here this morning.”
“The attack on Hilda,” I said. “I think the police are on the wrong track. Eric, I’m certain Hilda knew her assailant. Before I left the house that night, she told me she was going to spend the evening working on Justine’s financial records. I think she was searching for something that would help her resolve the question of Justine’s mental competence once and for all.”
“And you believe she found it.”
I nodded. “I do. I think that there was something in Justine’s personal papers that tipped the scales, and that whoever came to my house that night knew it was there. That’s why they tried to kill Hilda, and that’s why they ransacked the house until they found what they were looking for.”
Eric Fedoruk looked hard at me. “Where do I fit in?”
“I’m hoping you can help me understand some of the people in Justine’s life. The problem is I don’t know enough about any of them to ask the right questions.” I leaned towards him. “I guess all I can do is ask you to tell me about Justine.”
