The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn

by Gail Bowen

  I could have taken Tina at her word and opened every door on the second floor, but by the time I got to the top of the stairs, I didn’t need further proof to validate the theory I’d been forming since I talked to Justine’s neighbour. Epiphanies be damned: there was no way in the world the woman who had assembled this house would have exposed its treasures to people who had the rap sheets I’d seen in Jill’s report. I was now ready to bet the farm that the scene Hilda and I had walked in on the Monday after Justine’s murder had been carefully arranged. The odour of garbage, the sticky floors, the desecration of the wallpaper in the dining room had all been part of an elaborate hoax. Clearly, the game had been to make us believe Justine’s mind had disintegrated, but her daughters had lacked the time and the stomach to finish the job. I remembered how carefully we had been shepherded into the dining room, and led out again. Given the time constraints, the Blackwell sisters had put on the best show they could.

  At least, two of the sisters had. Tina seemed to be in the clear. She hadn’t been around the day Hilda and I had visited, and today she hadn’t hesitated when I asked if we could use the bathroom. Nothing seemed certain in this house, but given her openness, it seemed reasonable that Tina Blackwell hadn’t been part of the farce that had been prepared for Hilda and me.

  I looked at the emblems of justice that decorated the wall beside Justine’s staircase. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was get away from Leopold Crescent. I turned to Taylor. “Come on T, let’s blow this pop stand.”

  “We didn’t pee.”

  “Do you have to?”

  “No, but you said …”

  “I made a mistake. Let’s go.”

  Tina looked wistful as she let us out the front door. “Thanks for coming over, Mrs. Kilbourn, and thank you, Taylor. It was good to forget for a while.”

  “It was fun,” Taylor said.

  “Maybe someday I could visit you,” Tina said.

  “Any time,” I said. “By the way, I forgot to mention that I’m a friend of Jill Osiowy’s. She tells me she admires your work.”

  For the first time that afternoon, Tina turned her face fully towards me. “Does she admire my work enough to ignore this?” she asked bleakly.

  As we walked home, I tried to sort out the information I’d gleaned from our visit to the Blackwell sisters. It seemed that, like characters in a Pinter play, Justine’s daughters’ most significant communications were carried out through silence and subtext. While I puzzled over the line between illusion and reality, Taylor performed the useful work of planning the rest of our afternoon. As always, she proposed enough projects to fill a thirty-six-hour day, but we settled on a more modest agenda. We’d get the car, drive to the hospital to see Hilda, then take in the new show at the Mackenzie Gallery.

  Our stay at the Pasqua was short. Hilda appeared to be sleeping comfortably, and we didn’t want to disturb her. Taylor left her a drawing she’d made, then slipped away to sit with Nathan. When Taylor was out of earshot, I leaned over and kissed Hilda’s forehead. “Justine’s daughters lied to us, Hilda, but it won’t happen again. Now that I know what we’re dealing with, I won’t be so gullible. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise.”

  The new show at the Mackenzie was too cutting edge for Taylor and me. We hurried through, then headed outside to visit the Fafard cows; half-sized bronze sculptures of a bull, cow, and calf in front of the gallery. The animals’ names were Potter, Valadon, and Teevo, and for me, the time we spent admiring their perfect lines and the gentleness of their expression had the restorative power of a romp in a meadow.

  My sense of renewal was short-lived. When we got home, I could hear the phone ringing before I unlocked the front door. I raced to pick it up, heard the husky music of Lucy Blackwell’s voice, and felt my spirits plummet.

  “Music Woman, you’ve got to give me a chance to explain.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Not on the phone. Can we meet for a drink somewhere?”

  “I have a family, Lucy. I have to make supper.”

  “I’ll take you to a restaurant – all of you. Please, you have to listen to what really happened.”

  I almost hung up on her, then I remembered Signe Rayner. There was a chance that if I heard Lucy out, she might answer some of my questions about her sister. I took a deep breath. “Forget the restaurant,” I said. “You can come over. But it’s going to have to be a quick visit.”

  Lucy Blackwell was at our front door in ten minutes. She was still wearing the gypsy outfit, but there was nothing carefree in her manner. As she looked around the living room, she seemed both tense and unfocused. “This is so homey. That rocking chair is perfect.”

  “It was my grandmother’s,” I said.

  Lucy laughed softly. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. Can I sit in it?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Would you like a drink?”

  She shook her head. “I had too much at lunch. After you left I was feeling a bit shaky.”

  “Because I’d caught you in a lie.”

  She flushed. “Yes. What Signe and I did was stupid, and childish, but it wasn’t malicious. It was,” she shrugged helplessly, “make-believe. We were just using make-believe to show you the truth. In the last year, my mother had fooled so many people.” Lucy leapt to her feet and came over to where I was sitting. In a swift and graceful movement, she knelt on the rug in front of me. “Mrs. Kilbourn, you saw Tina’s face today. That abomination was a direct result of my mother’s enlightenment.”

  I almost cut her off. I had believed Eric Fedoruk when he told me that Justine had given Tina the money she asked for, and I’d had my fill of make-believe. But there was a real possibility that, as she spun her latest fiction, Lucy would reveal a truth that I needed to know. I sat back in my chair. “Go on,” I said.

  Lucy’s gaze was mesmerizing. “Tina was in a business where you can’t get old. When she asked for help to get the surgery that might have saved her career, my mother didn’t even hear her out. Instead of cutting her a cheque, Justine gave her a speech about how privileged we all were, and how it was time we stopped taking and started giving. That job of Tina’s might not have looked like much to you or me, Joanne, but it was her life. You should see her apartment. It’s filled with pictures of her doing all this demeaning public-relations stuff for CJRG: riding the float in the Santa Claus parade, flipping pancakes at the Buffalo Days breakfast, running in the three-legged race with the sports guy on her show. Total fluff, but it was her identity.” Lucy raked her fingers through her hair. “Tina’s always been fragile, emotionally. My mother knew that. She knew terrible things might happen if Tina was hurt again.”

  “What kind of terrible things?”

  Lucy looked away. “Forget I said that. I didn’t come here to talk about Tina.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “You came to explain why you and Signe decided to produce that little vignette for Hilda and me.”

  She winced, but she soldiered on. “I told you, it was just a way of getting you to see the truth.”

  “How many lies do you think it’s going to take before I see the truth, Lucy?”

  Her body tensed. “What do you mean?”

  I moved closer to her. “I know Tina got that money from your mother.”

  “How do you know?”

  I remembered Eric Fedoruk’s certainty. “There’s a cancelled cheque,” I said. It was a bluff, but it did the trick.

  In a flash, Lucy was on her feet. “Tina must have lied to me,” she said weakly and she started for the door.

  “Wait,” I said. I got up and followed her. “My turn now, and I haven’t got time to figure out which of you is lying about what. Lucy, I have one question for you, and the answer you give me had better be truthful because I’m running out of patience.”

  Lucy gazed at me intently. “What’s your question, Music Woman?”

  “What happened between Signe and the boy in Chicago?”

  Her face registered not
hing. “I have to be going,” she said.

  “No, you don’t,” I said. “Not until you tell me if the story is true.”

  “Signe was found innocent.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked.”

  Lucy walked to the window. “Is that your Volvo out there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve always wanted a Volvo wagon.” Her back was to me, and her tone was flat. It was impossible to tell if her words were derisive or heartfelt.

  “Lucy, you’re running out of time here.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t know what Signe did in Chicago, but she isn’t using that treatment on Eli Kequahtooway. My sister doesn’t make the same mistake twice.”

  “She talked to you about how she’s treating Eli?”

  Lucy shrugged. “She may have mentioned it.” She whirled around and gave me her dazzling smile. “So, that’s it, Music Woman. You’ve shaken out all the skeletons in our closet.” She adjusted her scarf. “Now, I’d better be on my way, let you get on with making supper for your kids.” Lucy Blackwell looked at me wistfully. “It must be nice to lead such an ordinary life.”

  As I stood in my garden in the late-afternoon sunshine, picking the last of the summer’s tomatoes, I thought about Lucy. If the purpose of her visit had been to clear the air, she hadn’t succeeded. As far as I was concerned, the Blackwell sisters were still, in Winston Churchill’s famous phrase, “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.”

  All during dinner, I pondered the problem of where to find the pieces that would make sense of the puzzle. The possibility I came up with was born of desperation. After supper, I got Taylor bathed and in bed, pointed Angus towards his books, and drove downtown to Culhane House and the person who, according to Eric Fedoruk, had been Justine’s closest companion in the final year of her life.

  When I got out of my car on Rose Street, the chill of apprehension I felt wasn’t wholly attributable to the fact that I was walking in an unfamiliar area on a moonless Sunday night. Detective Robert Hallam had characterized Wayne J. Waters as “lightning in a bottle”; it was impossible to predict how he’d react to an unexpected encounter. I checked the address I’d written down. Culhane House was only half a block away. I was almost there; it would be foolish to turn back now.

  The building was an old three-storey house on a corner lot. In the first half of the century, this had been a fashionable downtown address, but the people who were on their way up in the world had long since abandoned the neighbourhood to those who were going nowhere. From the outside, Culhane House looked solid and serviceable. In selecting it as the site of an organization that would serve as both hostel and headquarters for ex-cons, someone had chosen wisely. The location was central; the upper storeys could be used as temporary living quarters, and the bottom floor appeared to be spacious.

  The hand-lettered sign on the front door said “Enter,” so I did. The room into which I walked was dark, acrid with cigarette smoke, and, except for the sounds coming from the television, silent. On the TV screen, the Sultan was plotting vengeance against Aladdin and Princess Jasmine; none of the half-dozen or so people watching his treachery even glanced my way.

  “Do any of you know where I can find Wayne J. Waters?” I asked.

  The blonde in leopardskin spandex draped over the chair closest to me gave me the once-over. “He’s in the office,” she said, “right through them double doors. But hang on to your pompoms, girlie, he’s in a lousy mood.”

  The room in which I found Wayne J. appeared to have been the dining room in the house’s earliest incarnation. The chandelier he was sitting under had long since shed its crystal teardrops, but the long oak table in front of him and the sideboard in the corner were battered beauties. When he saw me, Wayne J. jumped to his feet and surprised me with a smile. “I’d given you up for dead,” he said. “How’s Hilda?”

  “Coming along,” I said.

  He made the thumbs-up sign. “Good, she’s a classy broad.”

  “She is,” I agreed.

  “You got time for a coffee?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “It’s been a long day. Coffee sounds great.”

  When he went off to get the coffee, I looked around the office. There wasn’t much to see: an old Tandy computer; a battered filing cabinet; a poster of a kittens rollicking with a roll of toilet paper under the words “… been up to any mischief lately?”; and a wall calendar for the month of September. The calendar had the kind of surface that can be written on with markers, and it was a crazy quilt of colour. When I examined the entries more closely, I saw that they were a record of appointments, colour-coded to match the various names in the legend printed at the bottom of the calendar. Terrence Ducharme’s name was in red marker, and his list of meetings would have kept him busier than most middle-class children: Anger Management; A.A.; Substance Abusers Anonymous; Interpersonal Skills. I was checking the entry for the night Hilda had been attacked when Wayne J. came back with the coffee.

  “Terry didn’t do her, you know.” His tone was conversational.

  I turned to face him. “I know,” I said. “The police told me he had an alibi for the night Hilda was attacked.”

  “I’m not talking about Hilda,” he said. “I’m talking about Justine.”

  “But he didn’t have an alibi,” I said.

  “Maybe he lacked an alibi,” Wayne J. said judiciously, “but he did have a disincentive.”

  “You’re going to have to explain that.”

  “There’s nothing to explain,” Wayne J. said, setting our mugs of coffee carefully on the table. “Terry knew the same thing everybody here knew.”

  I slid into the chair nearest me and picked up my mug. “Which was?”

  Wayne J. blew on top of his coffee to cool it. “Which was that I would have considered it my personal duty to kill anybody who touched a hair on Justine Blackwell’s head.”

  Whatever his intention, Wayne J.’s words were a conversation-stopper. For a beat, we sipped our coffee, alone in our private thoughts. Wayne J. seemed content to be silent, but I wasn’t. I hadn’t come to Culhane House to reflect; I’d come to get answers.

  “How are things going for you now?” I asked.

  Wayne J. gave me a sardonic smile. “Fuckin’ A.” The table in front of him was littered with bills. He scooped up a stack in one of his meaty hands. “As you can see, our creditors grow impatient. Unfortunately, Culhane House lacks the wherewithal to meet their demands.”

  “And no prospects?” I asked.

  He laughed his reassuring rumble. “None that are legally acceptable. And believe me I’ve explored my options. I even bit the bullet and went to Danger Boy’s office.”

  I must have looked puzzled.

  “Eric Fedoruk,” he said. “Owner of one of the sweetest machines money can buy, and I’ll bet he never takes it past 160 kph. What a waste! Anyway, Mr. Fedoruk gave me a rundown of the situation with Justine’s money. He used a bunch of legal mumbo-jumbo, but I’ve spent enough time in courtrooms to cut through that crap. The bottom line is that I’m going to have fight like hell to get any of Justine’s money.”

  “Are you going to do it?”

  “No.”

  “That surprises me,” I said.

  Wayne J. leaned towards me; he was so close I could smell the Old Spice. “Why? Because I’m broke and because everything I care about is going down the toilet?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Some things are worth more than money, Joanne.”

  I sipped my coffee. “What is it that’s worth more than money to you, Wayne J.?”

  “Not dragging Justine’s name through the mud. If I got myself a lawyer and went to court about this, those daughters of hers would haul out all the dirty laundry. They don’t have much regard for their mother.”

  Here was my opening. “What went wrong between Justine and her children?” I asked.

  “They’re losers, and Justine was a winner,”
he said judiciously. “And losers always hate winners. It’s human nature. And you know what else is human nature? No matter what a winner does for a loser, it’s never enough.” Suddenly Wayne J. clenched his hands, raised his fists, and brought them down on the table so hard, I thought the wood might crack. “She fucking did everything for them,” he said. “She gave Tina a bundle for that facelift or whatever the hell it was she wanted. And the singer was always there with her hand out too.”

  “Lucy asked Justine for money?”

  Wayne J.’s tone was mocking. “It costs money to make records. Haven’t you heard?” He was warming to his narrative now. “And the shrink had her own monetary needs – major ones. I know because I was involved in that one.”

  “What?”

  He shook himself. “Look, I shouldn’t be talking about any of this. It’s violating a confidence.”

  “Justine’s dead,” I said. “Nothing she told you can hurt her any more.”

  Wayne J. furrowed his brow in contemplation. “What the hell,” he said. “The good doctor never even thanked me. This couple in Chicago was shaking her down. Justine didn’t want her daughter involved, so she asked me to deliver the money to them. It was the only time she ever asked me to do her a favour. I was proud to do it.” Remembering, he looked away. “I was glad Justine didn’t have to deal with those people. They were garbage. The architect was a peckerhead – totally pussy-whipped. His wife was crazy and mean as hell. She had this little dog, and she made it wear boots when it went outside. To keep it from tracking in mud, get it? No wonder her kid needed a shrink.”

  “Did you ever find out why these people were blackmailing Signe Rayner?”

  “I never asked,” he said. “I just delivered the money, and told them it was a one-shot deal. If they got greedy, they’d get sorry.” His eyes bored into me. “Mrs. Kilbourn, I’d appreciate it if you kept this little story to yourself. I don’t want anything floating around that will make Justine look bad.”