by Gail Bowen
“For you, too,” I said. I walked him to the door and watched him go down the front steps.
“Soren, I’m glad Andy had you.”
He bounded up the stairs like a boy, kissed me on the cheek and gave me a smile of indescribable sweetness.
“Thank you. Jo, you can’t know how much that means to me.” He ran down the walk, jumped into the Porsche and took off. Just as he turned the corner the rain turned to snow, huge wet flakes that fell heavily on everything, and I thought, “I’ll call him tonight and see if he got home all right.” But I never did.
The postman came with a fistful of birthday cards, and a note of thanks from Eve in her curiously schoolgirlish handwriting. There was a Creeds box with a pretty striped silk scarf from Howard Dowhanuik. (A memory – Howard coming to me the Christmas after Marty left. “Jo, what do I get all the women in the office? Booze seems a little crude.” And me: “Well, Howard, you can never go wrong with a scarf.” Indeed.) There was a first-edition James Beard cookbook from my old friend Nina Love, and a handsome book on Frida Kahlo from Nina’s daughter, Sally. I looped the silk scarf around my neck, put the James Beard and the Kahlo books on the kitchen table and sat down and looked through my birthday cards.
Then I went upstairs to shower. I stood under the hot water and thought about Soren Eames and Andy.
How could I not have known? That was the thought that kept floating to the top of my consciousness. I shampooed my hair and soaped myself. How could I not have known? I had known Andy for seventeen years. For ten of the years we’d been close, and for two we had been as close as a man and woman working together can be. But it had never crossed my mind. How did I feel about it? Angry. Not angry at it, but angry at Andy for not telling me. Not trusting me – but why would he? Why should he? I turned the cold water down and the shower beat down on me hot and steamy. Why should he tell? Whose life was it anyway?
I went into my room and pulled on jogging pants and a sweatshirt and my old hightops, went downstairs, put the dogs on their leashes, slipped on a slicker I’d bought Peter to wear to football games and headed for the creek. It was still snowing. In October. “Go for it, prairies,” I said as the snow fell steadily, covering the dead leaves. There was no one in the park, so I unhooked the leashes and let the dogs run. Everywhere their feet touched they left a mark.
“A life in translation.” That’s what a gay friend of mine had called it. His name was Carlyle Wise, and he ran a small art gallery in a heritage house he had restored. He had waited until he was forty to come out, and the only time I heard bitterness in his voice was when he talked about his first forty years. “All that deceit,” he had said. “All that energy wasted translating your life into something other people will accept. You’re always a foreigner.”
The dogs had run down the river bank and were swimming downstream – two sleek golden heads cutting through the grey water.
After he came out, Carlyle Wise had established himself as a kind of informal crisis centre for young men troubled by their homosexuality. Several times a year, one of the hospitals’ psychiatric wards would call him, and he would go down and collect a boy who had attempted suicide, bring him home, arrange for counselling, cook for him, get him started in classes or a job and give him a home until he was ready to start life on his own.
“As I hit my dotage I am reduced to being the Queen Mother of the gay community,” he would say with a laugh. “But you know, Jo, it’s a relief. As Popeye used to say, ‘I yam what I yam.’ ”
Andy had never made it that far. When he died, he was still leading a life in translation, still protecting the secrets of his private world. Somehow that made his death even harder to bear.
The dogs, worried to see me sitting so long on a park bench, came out of the river shaking the wet off, then nuzzled my raincoat. We walked home together through the wet snow. The house was cold and dark. I turned on lights and the furnace, towelled off the dogs and rummaged through the freezer for something good for lunch. I found a container of clam chowder and a loaf of Mieka’s sourdough bread, put them both in the oven to warm and took another hot shower. I ate my lunch at the kitchen table wearing an old flannel robe and a pair of fuzzy slippers I’d always loved. At forty-six, you take your comfort where you find it.
After lunch I made myself a cup of tea, opened a new scribbler and wrote two questions: Who knew about Andy and the first man? Who knew about Andy and Soren? I listed the possibilities. (1) Eve. If she knew about the first man, it would explain her outburst at Disciples the day after Andy was killed. (2) Howard Dowhanuik. He had been Andy’s teacher and friend and the leader of his party. Would Andy have told him so he could weigh the possibilities of trouble ahead? There was a chance he knew about Soren. Andy was, as Soren said, an honourable man. He might have felt he owed Howard that. (3) Dave Micklejohn. He might know everything. That would explain his outburst at the Par Three. In the early days Andy had stayed with him when the session was on. He was Andy’s oldest friend and probably the closest. (4) Craig Evanson. He and Andy had been in law school together, then in the legislature together all those years. Would he have heard rumours? But he would have told his wife, and Julie Evanson would never have kept quiet about it when Craig and Andy were contesting the leadership. (5) Mr. X. The first man obviously knew there was a new man. Did he know it was Soren Eames?
I looked at my list – a good beginning. I picked up James Beard, went upstairs, curled up with his recipe for honey squash pie and fell into a sound and dreamless sleep.
When I woke it was three o’clock. I felt better. A man from the florist came with a dozen creamy long-stemmed roses from Rick Spenser. My neighbour, Barbara Bryant, brought over a box wrapped in pink paper. Inside was a flowered flannelette nightie. Every year for fifteen years we had given one another a nightie for our birthdays. The first year mine, I remembered, had been black with a lot of lace; now it was long-sleeved flannelette with a granny collar. Milestones.
The boys came home from school cheerful and full of themselves. They had made dinner reservations at Joe T’s, a favourite restaurant of theirs and mine. Peter quietly suggested that if I wanted a pre-dinner drink, I have it at home. They had saved enough for either dinner and a drink or dinner and dessert, and Joe T’s cheesecake was famous. I had my pre-dinner drink at home.
We went to the restaurant, ate a lot and laughed a lot. When we came home, Dave Micklejohn was waiting on the porch with a wicked-looking chocolate cake, a bottle of California champagne and an apology. The kids made a fire and we sat and watched a ball game, and between innings we talked about school and ball and politics. Andy’s name, of course, came up, and Dave seemed able to talk about him easily and affectionately. The world was starting to piece itself back together, and I was grateful.
A little before 10:00 p.m. the phone rang. On the other end was Rick Spenser. It was good to hear his voice.
“How was your day?” He sounded in high spirits.
“On balance, my day was just fine. Yours must have been wonderful. You sound manic.”
“I am exuberant. I’m talking to you. How was your day really, Jo?”
“Really, it was good – very happy. Now let’s leave the subject of my birthday.” And so we did. We talked about the kids and James Beard’s passion for butter, and I told him a crazy story I’d read in a tabloid about how, from beyond the grave, James Beard had written a health-food cookbook. Rick loved that story and matched it with one about the prime minister, and that led to his final wonderful piece of news. He would be free to join us in Winnipeg for Thanksgiving.
I was glowing when I hung up. By the time I said goodnight to Dave, let the dogs out one last time, turned out the lights and locked the doors, I felt the fragments of the good old life knitting themselves together again. Maturity, I thought, as I walked up the stairs. Forty-six wasn’t going to be so bad after all. When I walked past Mieka’s room I opened the bedroom door and said, “Coping,” in a declaiming theatrical voice. It was a joke
we had when the world fell apart. It was a measure of how good I felt that when I pulled Mieka’s door closed, I was smiling.
CHAPTER
15
I had put the dogs on their leashes for their morning run when the phone rang. It was a little before nine o’clock. At first, I thought it was a crank call – for a few long seconds there was background noise, but no one spoke. Then a terrible, unrecognizable voice said:
“Jo, they say I killed him.”
“What? Who?” The dogs were going crazy at the front door. Always when their leads were on, it was time to go. I shouted above the racket, “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. Who is this?”
“It’s Eve, Jo. Eve Boychuk. Oh, Jo, they say I killed him.” Her voice was rising with hysteria.
“Eve, stay calm. Where are you?”
“At the police station in the city. They came and got me this morning. I hadn’t even … Oh, God, Jo. I can’t deal with this.” She was almost incoherent.
“Eve, do you know where you are? Ask someone if you’re on Smith Street.”
I could hear the muffled noise that happens when someone has a hand over the receiver, then she was back on the line. “Yes, Smith Street. Oh, Jo, please.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” When I hung up I noticed how badly I was shaking. Not a good day to drive. I called a cab. Five minutes later, as I slid into the back seat of the taxi, I could hear my dogs barking in the house, still angry.
The new police station was all glass and concrete – “state-of-the-art,” as our local paper invariably said. I had been there with Angus’s class in the spring, not long after it opened. A nice young constable had shown us around, fingerprinted the kids and talked to them sensibly about drugs and never being afraid of the police and always trusting them when they were in trouble.
Well, I was in trouble now. At the front desk a woman with a round face and granny glasses was waiting for me. Her identification card said “Special Constable Doris Ironstar.” She filled out a temporary identification card for me and led me down a corridor and into a small room. There, sitting alone at a square metal table, was Eve. She looked almost catatonic, but as soon as she saw me, she ran across the room and embraced me. She was covered in blood, and the smell was so strong I almost retched. I turned and looked at Constable Ironstar.
“My God, what have you done to her?”
“I’ll get the inspector,” she said and left.
Eve was sobbing and embracing me. She was a strong woman and it took me a minute to pry myself loose. She was wearing the unbleached cotton dress she had worn the day Andy died, and she was barelegged. Her dress and her legs and hands were caked with blood, but I couldn’t see where it was coming from.
“Eve, where are you hurt?”
But the only answer she gave was a low guttural sound. She crooned my name and said the words “no” and “oh” over and over.
Finally my old friend Inspector Millar Millard came in.
“Can’t you at least get her a doctor?” I said. “She could be bleeding to death.”
The inspector looked at me wearily. “There’s a doctor on her way from City Hospital, but the blood isn’t coming from Mrs. Boychuk; it came from him.”
Now I could feel the hysteria rising in my throat. “Is everyone here crazy? Andy’s been dead for a month. How can that be his blood?”
When he bent to calm me, I saw that the good Inspector Millard, the one who gave me tea and biscuits, was back. His voice was weary but kind. “Mrs. Kilbourn, the blood didn’t come from Mrs. Boychuk’s husband. It seems we have another murder here.”
I looked up. Millar Millard was watching me, waiting.
“Mrs. Kilbourn, that blood on your friend came from a man named Soren Eames. Mrs. Boychuk is being held in connection with his murder.”
I felt as if I had turned to ice. The inspector continued.
“We had a call this morning from” – he checked the notes on his clipboard – “from a girl named Kelly Evanson …”
“Lori Evanson.” I corrected automatically.
He smiled and pencilled in the change on his report. “Early this morning Lori Evanson found Soren Eames dead in his office at Wolf River Bible College. Someone had beaten him rather savagely with an axe. We have the weapon. We’re checking it out, of course, but it seems to be pretty standard issue, the kind of axe kids use in Boy Scouts. You have children, Mrs. Kilbourn. I’ll bet you’ve had an axe just like it in your house at one time or another. Not that I’m suggesting a connection there,” he said, tapping his cigarette package on the corner of the table. He looked again at his notes. “When Lori Evanson walked into the office this morning, Mrs. Boychuk was standing over the body with the axe in her hands.”
All on their own, my legs had begun to tremble uncontrollably. I looked down at them. Somewhere in the distance the inspector’s voice, patient and gravelly, was talking about physical evidence.
A tiny young woman in a trenchcoat came in carrying a medical bag. She went not to Eve, but to me. She slid her fingers around my wrist, positioned her face close to mine.
“Shock,” she said, still holding my wrist in her hand. Then there was a swab and a pinprick sensation at the crease of my elbow, and I felt warm and weary. “You’ll be all right now. You’re Joanne Kilbourn, aren’t you? Well, Joanne, someone will get you some tea. Plenty of sugar,” she said over her shoulder. “Hang in there, Joanne,” and then, smooth as silk, she moved along. “Now, Eve, what you need is a hot bath and a chance to get all this muck off. The inspector tells me there is a shower here, and some fresh clothes, but just let me give you a little something to bring you down a bit. There. Now that should keep the bad stuff away for a while.” She motioned to Constable Ironstar. “I think it’s time we took Eve to the shower; we can sit outside and talk to her as the water runs. Come on, Eve, let’s go.” She took Eve’s hand in hers, and the two of them walked out of the room as coolly as if they were at a pyjama party.
Constable Ironstar picked up the medical bag and followed them. She looked edgy. Tranquillized or not, Eve was an unknown quantity. As soon as Constable Ironstar shut the door behind her, the inspector leaned forward in his seat.
“Are you all right now, Mrs. Kilbourn?”
“Yes, I think so. I’m sorry, it was …”
“A shock. I know. It always is – especially the smell. We would have given Eve a chance to clean up if things had worked out. We’ve had personnel problems here today, a death.”
A piece slid in place. A staff sergeant had been killed earlier in the week. I’d read in the paper that the funeral was this morning. “I’m sorry about your colleague, Inspector,” I said.
Unexpectedly, he smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Kilbourn. That’s a kind thought. Now.” He sighed regretfully. “I guess we have to concentrate on this other matter. Mrs. Boychuk needs a lawyer. Normally, people make the call themselves or give us a name and we make the call for them. But Mrs. Boychuk couldn’t seem to get much beyond you this morning. I wonder if you could suggest someone.”
“Craig Evanson,” I said, then wondered where that suggestion came from.
“Is he in the book?”
“Yes, his office is on Broad Street. Just be sure to tell him what it’s about. He’ll come.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kilbourn. I’ll call him myself.” He stood up. “I’ll have someone bring you some tea.” He closed the door behind him.
In a few minutes Doris Ironstar came with a pot of tea and some cookies on a plate. The cookies looked homemade.
“Police issue?” I said.
“Out of my lunchbox,” she said. “My boyfriend made them. They’re good. You look as if you could use a little nourishment.”
I felt tears come to my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I seem to be right on the edge this morning.”
“Drink the tea and eat the cookies,” said Special Constable Ironstar, and she gave me a small smile as she went out the door.
Then Craig
Evanson stuck his head in. “I’ll be back. I’m just going to see about Eve,” he said, and was gone.
I drank my tea and ate my cookies, gingersnaps with lots of molasses. Constable Ironstar’s boyfriend was no slouch. I felt better.
In a few minutes a little party trooped down the hall past my door – the inspector, the doctor from the hospital, Craig Evanson, Eve. When she saw me, Eve started into the room toward me. She was clean and dressed in what appeared to be pyjamas. Her hair was damp but neatly combed and she had a grey army blanket around her shoulders. She had the slightly punchy look of an exhausted child. Craig and the young doctor guided her into the hallway and down the corridor, and Eve gave me a little wave.
The inspector came in and sat down with me. “Mr. Evanson wants to talk to his client privately. We’ll be taking her to the correctional centre later. You can leave any time. If you wait a little, I’ll have someone drive you.” As if on cue, a dozen policemen in dress uniform marched by the door.
“I feel as if I’m in a Fellini movie,” I said.
The inspector smiled and said, “I often have that feeling myself. Anyway, you can walk out of this movie whenever you’re ready.”
I looked at him. I felt as tired and sad as he sounded.
“No, Inspector, I’m afraid you’re wrong. I don’t think I can walk out of this movie. I think there are some things I have to tell you.”
Two hours later, a police car delivered me to the house on Eastlake Avenue. When I went to stand up after my interview with Millar Millard, my legs had turned to rubber. I’d been glad of the ride.
When I walked in the front door, Peter and Angus were home for lunch. They were sitting in front of the TV eating Kraft Dinner. The news of Soren Eames’s murder had become public. When I sat on the floor beside them, the television was showing Eve and me walking across the parking lot of the hospital the morning we drove to Wolf River. I hadn’t realized the network had filmed us, but there we were. Eve, tall and elegant, and me, short and matronly. Mutt and Jeff. There were other pieces of file footage: the funeral, of course, and the dedication of the Charlie Appleby Prayer Centre. There was Soren Eames, wired with excitement, talking passionately and sensitively about the design of the building, then a sweeping shot of the dignitaries sitting in chairs on the hard-packed dirt in front of the centre. The premier was there, looking, as always, boyishly hyperactive (too much sugar, Angus once said knowledge-ably), and Lane Appleby, sitting not far from Eve and Andy, then a quick shot of Andy and Soren Eames together at the microphone: two handsome men in young middle age, squinting in the pale, cold sun of an April morning. When everything came out, that shot of Soren and Andy would be on the front page of every newspaper in Canada.
