by Gail Bowen
She died slowly and in mortal terror. She deserved better.
Izaak Levin was luckier. His death was quick. When the ambulance attendants began loading Sally’s body on their stretcher, Izaak made a little crying sound and fell to the floor. The doctors tried CPR. They struggled over him for what seemed to me to be a painfully long time, but nothing worked.
“Heart,” one of the doctors said laconically as he stood up and turned away from Izaak’s body. “He just wasn’t salvageable.”
Ours was the last table the police let go. The people at our table were interviewed separately and then together, but the police seemed less interested in our relationship with Sally than in the Guerrilla Girls, and we were questioned again and again about the sequence of events that began with the second dousing of the lights and the entrance of the Guerrilla Girls and ended with Sally’s death. Finally, they told us we were free to leave.
It was one-thirty in the morning. Mary Ross McCourt offered to take her aunt home, and Hilda followed her gratefully. It was the first time I had ever seen her appear old and helpless. Annie Christensen and Hugh Rankin-Carter left together. They were staying at the same hotel, and as they left I heard Annie invite Hugh to join her in the bar for a nightcap. No one wanted to be alone.
When the police gave us permission to go, I walked over and put my arms around Nina. She held tight to me, and then she looked at me hard.
“You’re all the daughter I have now,” she said.
People, including me, laugh at the phrase, “I thought my heart would break,” but that night as I looked into Nina’s eyes, I knew it could happen. When she kissed my cheek, I could smell the familiar scent of Joy. Always that perfume had meant I was safe, home free. That night, the magic didn’t seem to work. As I watched Nina take Stuart Lachlan’s arm and lead him gently out of the room, I knew that none of us would ever be safe again.
I couldn’t leave the room without looking around one last time. The police hadn’t let the people from Stephen Orchard’s catering company clear the tables. The candles had, of course, guttered and burned out long ago, but the coeurs à la crème fraîche were still there, and that is my last memory of that night: three hundred creamy hearts dissolving into red.
CHAPTER
11
It was a little after 2:00 a.m. when Peter and I pulled into the driveway on Osler Street. As soon as the police told me I could go, I’d called home. Pete had answered on the first ring. Every light in our house was blazing. It wasn’t a night for shadows or dark corners. Mieka and Greg were waiting for me at the front door; Angus was in his room with the dogs. As soon as he heard my voice, Angus came running down the hall. He threw his arms around me and buried his face in my neck.
“This really sucks,” he said. “This really, really sucks.”
I tried to think of something I could say that would make it better, but there wasn’t anything. I pulled him close, and we walked into the living room together. When I sat down on the couch, Angus curled up against me the way he used to when he was little. We were both shivering. Mieka came in with an afghan and covered us both.
The afghan was the one Sally had pulled around her the night Clea Poole died. A flash of memory. Sally in a rare moment of doubt, seeking reassurance. “Do you think Taylor will ever make one of these for her notorious mother?” And me, reassuring, “Sure, notorious mothers are the best kind.”
Mieka and Greg stayed at the house that night. It was nice of them, but it didn’t make any difference. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Sally as she had been in those last seconds, her lovely face frozen in the primal panic of an animal at the moment of death. Anything was better than that. I went downstairs and sat in the chair by the window in my dark living room. Across the street I could see the familiar shapes of the neighbours’ houses. I looked at them and thought about nothing. When the sky began to lighten and the first cars started to drive along the street, I went into the kitchen and made coffee. I poured myself a cup, but somehow the mug slipped from my hand. It clattered noisily across the floor, leaving a dark spoor in its wake. I picked up a cloth, but when I knelt to clean up the mess, I started to sob. I started, and I couldn’t stop. Barefoot, shivering in my thin cotton nightie, I sat on the kitchen floor and cried until I felt an arm around my shoulders, and my daughter led me upstairs to bed. She stayed with me till I fell asleep.
I didn’t sleep long, but when I woke up I felt better. I showered and pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. When I went downstairs, the kids were sitting around the kitchen table and Mieka was making French toast.
“Your favourite,” she said, “so you have to have some.”
“I will, later,” I said. “Honestly. Right now all I want is some coffee.”
I’d just taken a sip when the phone rang. Mieka answered it, then turned to me.
“For you. Shall I ask him to call back?”
I shook my head and took the receiver. It was Hugh Rankin-Carter.
“Joanne, I’ve found out some things I’d rather you heard from me than … well, than from others. Would you like to meet me somewhere? Or I could come there if it’s better for you.”
“Why don’t you come here?” I said. “My daughter’s just making French toast. If you haven’t already had breakfast, you could eat with us.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can get a cab,” he said.
He was at our front door in fifteen minutes. As I helped him off with his coat, I noticed that he had shaved and was wearing a fresh shirt. He still looked like hell. I caught a glimpse of my face in the hall mirror. I looked like hell, too.
We went into the kitchen and I introduced the kids to Hugh. The boys said hello and excused themselves. Peter had a class. Angus asked if he could go back to bed. It seemed as good a thing to do as any. When they left, Mieka turned to us.
“Two orders of French toast?” she asked.
“Sounds delightful,” Hugh said.
“Nothing for me,” I said.
“You have to eat,” Hugh said curtly. He smiled at Mieka. “I’ll bet Joanne can be tempted.” He turned to me. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you about keeping your strength up in a crisis?”
“My mother limited herself to telling me I’d ruined her life.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Ah, the search for the mother. That explains Nina. Sally was always baffled at how close you and her mother were.”
“They were very different women,” I said. “I don’t think they were ever very fair in their assessments of each other.”
“From what I’ve seen of Nina Love, Sally was more than fair,” Hugh said. He sipped his coffee. “Joanne, about last night. I’m afraid I have something in the nature of a revelation. After I had my drink with Annie Christensen, I went down to the police station. The boys and girls in blue were amazingly forthcoming. You’d be touched to see how people welcome me when I tell them I’m from a Toronto newspaper. Anyway, the first thing I learned is of forensic interest. Sally died of food-induced anaphylactic reaction. Her coeur à la crème fraîche was covered in powdered almonds.”
I felt my throat start to close. “Stephen Orchard knew she couldn’t eat almonds,” I said weakly.
“Stephen Orchard didn’t put them there, Joanne. The police found a little plastic bag in the pocket of the jacket Izaak Levin was wearing when he died. It had been emptied, but there were traces of something that the police, with their flair for language, are at the moment calling ‘potential almond residue.’ ”
I picked up my coffee cup, but my hands were shaking so badly I could barely get it to my lips.
“There’s more,” Hugh said. “They found Sally’s purse with the epinephrine kit. It was in the gallery cloakroom. Jo, the purse was in the pocket of Izaak Levin’s overcoat.”
“So he killed her,” I said.
“It looks that way,” said Hugh. “Either that or, after all his rude comments about my lifestyle, old Izaak’s turned out to be a cross-dresser.”
De
spite everything, I laughed.
Mieka brought over two plates of French toast. “I’ll leave you two alone now. Shout if you need me.”
“Thanks,” I said. “For everything.” I took a bite of French toast. “Good,” I said. “It really is. You were right about eating, Hugh.”
He smiled and put maple syrup on his French toast. “So what do you think?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know if I even care. All those questions last night about the Guerrilla Girls. I guess they’re off the hook now.”
“I don’t think they’re off the hook at all,” Hugh said. “I’m a visual arts editor, not a crime reporter, but I had the distinct impression last night that the police aren’t fond of coincidence. You know, Jo, the Guerrilla Girls did turn out the lights, and they were running around that room. Who knows what they did in the dark. They could have been working with Izaak Levin.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “they could have been working with him, or it could have been the other way round.”
Hugh went over, picked up the coffeepot and filled our cups. “You’ve lost me,” he said.
“I guess it’s possible,” I said, “that the Guerrilla Girls could have set Izaak Levin up. You know, Hugh, in all the confusion after the lights went out it wouldn’t have been hard to slip something as small as an empty plastic baggie into a jacket pocket. The Guerrilla Girl who came to our table was standing right between Izaak and Nina. I remember that clearly. And it certainly would have been easy for her to grab Sally’s purse. It was slung over the back of her chair all evening. You must have noticed it – one of those antique evening bags with a chain so you can carry it over your shoulder.”
Suddenly I was so weary I could barely move. “Why are we doing this?” I asked. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything. We can sit here till doomsday and nothing we figure out is going to change the past twenty-four hours.”
Hugh looked as weary as I felt. He stood up. “I think it’s time to go,” he said.
He called a cab, and when it came, I walked him to the front door.
“Take care of yourself,” he said. “Thank your daughter for the breakfast.”
“Come back again,” I said.
“Every time I’m in Saskatoon.” Then he smiled. “Be sure to wear that shirt next time. It’s a little Dolly Parton but very cute. I’ll bet your kids got it for you.”
I didn’t remember what I was wearing. I looked down: bubble-gum pink with sequins saying I LOVE JO. I leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
“You lose your bet,” I said. “It wasn’t from my kids. It was a present from a friend.”
It didn’t take me long to decide to go to Nina’s. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t get clear of what she had said to me the night before. “You’re all the daughter I have now.” It was my duty to tell her about Izaak Levin. As strained as her relationship with Sally had been, this would be a shock. I had to be there to help her deal with it.
I went up and changed into my best black skirt and sweater and called a cab. All the way to Spadina Crescent, the cab driver kept up a running commentary on Sally’s murder. I couldn’t seem to work up the energy to tell him to stop. Traffic near the gallery was heavy. The prospect of seeing the building where four shocking deaths had occurred really brought out the citizens. Apparently, Stuart Lachlan’s address was still secret because the only cars in front of number seventeen were Stu’s matched Mercedes. The family of snow people had been revised a little by thaws and storms but they were still perky. A banner, white with big red letters and a border of hearts, stretched from the father to the daughter. HAPPY VALENTINE’S FROM TAYLOR LOVE LACHLAN, it said.
I took a deep breath before I lifted the brass door knocker. Nina answered the door. She was wearing a white cashmere dress that I didn’t remember, very chic, very flattering. An antique gold locket gleamed at her neck, and in her ears were tiny hoops of chased gold. She took both my hands in hers and pulled me gently inside.
“I’m so glad it’s you, Jo,” she said in her low breathy voice. “I need help and I was debating with myself about whether it was too early to call you.”
“It could never be too early, Ni,” I said.
She helped me off with my coat and then, hand in hand, we walked into the living room.
I don’t know what I expected. Neither Nina nor Stuart Lachlan was the keening or rending garments type, but everything was so serene, so life as usual. Mozart was on the CD player; there were bowls of shaggy white chrysanthemums on the mantel and coffee table, and the air smelled of coffee and fresh baking.
I turned to Nina. “You know I’d do anything for you, Ni, but it certainly looks as if everything’s in hand.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” she said. She made a sweeping gesture toward the Chinese Chippendale desk. “Really, I’ve just begun.”
I looked over at the desk. There was an open telephone book on it and a notepad with notations in Nina’s neat backhand.
“I’m just trying to think of everything that needs to be done and match up the chore list with the names of the local people. I don’t know this city well enough to make an informed decision myself, but I thought I could make some preliminary lists for Stuart to choose from. This is going to be a trying day for him.”
“For all of us,” I said.
“Of course,” she agreed. “We’re all the walking wounded today.”
“Ni, I have more news. Could we sit down?”
She drew me over to the couch. “I’m sorry, Jo. You’ll have to forgive me. It’s just that there’s so much …”
“I’m afraid I’m going to add to it, dear. The police have completed some of their investigation, and they have some ideas about what might have happened last night.” I moved closer to her and told her about Izaak and the almonds and the epinephrine. She listened with her back ramrod straight and her hands cupping one another loosely, like a woman waiting to have her photograph taken. Her calm unnerved me.
“Nina, did you understand what I said? The police think Izaak was the one.”
“Yes,” she said, “I heard you.”
In the kitchen there was the treble pinging sound of an oven timer. Nina stood up and gave me a shaky smile.
“Currant scones,” she said, “Stuart’s favourite. I’m going to fix a tray for him and take it upstairs. I’ll bring us something, too, Jo. Please, just be patient and make yourself comfortable.”
It was a tall order. I walked over to Nina’s desk. The telephone book was open to funeral homes. I shuddered and walked through the dining room to the bay window that overlooked the backyard. Nina’s evening dress, tulip red, and Stu’s tuxedo were out there, hanging side by side on the clothesline. Even before smoking had become the great social sin, Nina had hated the lingering smell of cigarettes. She always hung her clothes out to air after she had been somewhere where people smoked. There had been smoking last night. And there had been murder.
For a while, my mind drifted. White think. Then I felt someone beside me. I looked down and Taylor Love Lachlan was there. Her blond hair was smoothed back behind an Alice in Wonderland black velvet bow, and she was wearing a Black Watch tartan skirt and a white blouse. She was silent, intent on what she saw through the window.
“Look,” she said finally, “when the wind blows, Nina’s dress and Daddy’s suit look like they’re dancing on the clothesline.”
I smiled and gave her shoulder a squeeze.
“Sally died, you know,” she said conversationally. “I was asleep, but when I woke up, Daddy told me Sally had gone to heaven.”
I didn’t know what to say. I stood there, numb, looking into the yard, my hand resting on Taylor’s shoulder. The wind had picked up, and Taylor was right. Nina’s dress and Stu’s tuxedo looked as if they were dancing. Inexplicably, I felt a clutch of panic.
But suddenly behind me there was Nina’s voice, warm, reassuring. “Come and eat something, you two.” And I felt safe again. She was sitting at
the dining-room table in a pose I’d seen a thousand times: a tray set with the thinnest cups, a teapot, plates, linen napkins, something still warm from the oven for tea.
Izaak Levin was not mentioned again that morning. As Nina talked quietly about the kinds of birds that would come to their bird feeder when the great migrations north began, I saw that she was trying to protect Taylor and Stuart by enclosing them in a world of familiar pleasures. There was no place for Sally’s murderer at that table, and so we talked of birds and gardens and Stuart’s summer home at Stay Away Lake, a hundred miles north of the city. Stuart wanted to go there after everything was settled, Nina said in her soft voice. He loved the house at Stay Away Lake. His family had owned it since before he was born, and everything was exactly as it had been half a century ago.
“He needs that now,” said Nina. “So much has changed.”
“So much has changed.” I repeated those words to myself as I started the long walk to Osler Street. I didn’t even make it to the bridge before the tears started. I didn’t care. I stood and looked down at the river and cried. When I was finished, I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and started to walk again. The sky was overcast but the air was fresh, and when I turned up the back alley toward our house, I was feeling in control. My neighbour was out in her backyard taking sheets off the line. The sheets were frozen, and she had to wrestle with them to get them folded and in her laundry hamper. I thought of Nina’s evening dress and Stuart’s tuxedo dancing against the grey February sky. And then out of nowhere, a poem, something we used to write in autograph books when I was in grade school:
I love you. I love you. I love you almighty.
I wish your pyjamas were next to my nightie.
Now don’t get excited.
Now don’t lose your head.
I mean on the clothesline and not in the bed.
