12 Rose Street

by Gail Bowen

  When we got in the car, Zack snapped on his seatbelt. “What the hell did you mean by ‘our turn now’?”

  I backed out of the driveway. “When Liz and I were together in the kitchen, I realized that she was Cassandra. I confronted her and she panicked. I thought if I suggested that the four of us get together again, Graham might not suspect anything had upset her.”

  “And he wouldn’t realize Liz was Cassandra?” Zack said. “It’s too late for that, Jo. Graham might not have heard Quinlan Live when it was broadcast, but my guess is he’d heard the podcast before the day was out.”

  “And once he recognized Liz’s voice, he knew he had to discredit her. So he invited us to dinner to show that she was a wreck and he was a loving husband, Damn it, Zack, I walked right into the trap. Ian always said I was terminally naive.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Jo, Graham Meighen is a sociopath. They’re brilliant manipulators. Several of my legal colleagues are sociopaths and they’ve screwed me in court more times than I care to remember.”

  I gave Zack a quick look. “You really believe Graham’s a sociopath?”

  “He has all the signs,” Zack said. “The superficial charm, the fake empathy, and that freaky ability to maintain uninterrupted eye contact. Did you notice all those penetrating gazes he gave you when Liz screwed up the dessert.”

  “I noticed,” I said. “I thought he was just embarrassed for her. Graham’s eyes are so like Bev’s – that intense blue-green. I guess I got sucked in.”

  “Did Bev ever seem concerned about her father?”

  “No. She certainly never suggested he was pathological. She talked about Liz frequently, and always with great affection, but all I can remember her saying about Graham was that he was moody and he had a short fuse when something didn’t go his way. That may explain why Liz was so secretive about giving me a cheque for our campaign tonight.”

  “A cheque and a SHREVE sign on the lawn. Liz is still her own woman.”

  “She is,” I said. “But it’s an uphill battle. She’s seeing a psychiatrist, and I’m sure she has friends. I just hope the support she has is enough. Tonight when we were leaving, Liz made it clear she doesn’t want me to call her. Given the situation with Graham, I get it, but I don’t like it.”

  “Neither do I,” Zack said. “But Liz is at the centre of this, Jo. We have to trust her judgment.”

  For the next two weeks, it seemed that our campaign had found the sweet spot. Zack’s numbers were rising slowly but surely. The days stayed warm and sunny, so we planned a series of suppertime wiener roasts in city parks in the various wards across the city. There were ten new and progressive candidates running for city council, and in each ward we coordinated our efforts with those of the candidate who was running against the incumbent councillor. The turnouts were good. At every event we had volunteers selling SHREVE T-shirts in Zack’s favourite red, and sign-up lists for people who would knock on doors, take signs, or drive our voters to the polls on election day.

  Milo was proving to be worth his weight in rubies. His online training material for volunteers was invaluable. There were general rules about conduct on the doorstep and guidelines for reporting back information electronically. Regina is a city of neighbourhoods, and Milo had created a voter profile for each of them, identifying average income and education, predominant family structure, and issues of concern. When Zack showed up for the wiener roasts, he knew exactly what kind of people he would be meeting, and he had a solid grasp of the issues that most concerned them. He was also able to establish relationships with the candidates running for council. If the fates were with us, after November’s swearing in ceremony, City Hall would be a very different place.

  Howard and Milo, an odd couple if ever there was one, struck up an alliance based on a common goal and a growing admiration for each other’s talents. Milo’s strategies for creating a solid ground game were the same ones we’d employed for years, but the databank Milo had created and the skill with which he used social media to connect with voters blew Howard away. For his part, Milo was impressed with the depth of Howard’s ability to sniff out a potential problem and deal with it before it bloomed into a crisis.

  For all intents and purposes, Zack was Cronus’s next of kin, and he had asked that Debbie keep him informed of developments in the case. So far the investigation into Cronus’s murder had eliminated some possibilities but produced very few leads. Forensics had found nothing of significance in Cronus’s Porsche or in the parking lot behind the Sahara Club. The only DNA other than Cronus’s found on the red bandana had been traced to a member of Red Rage named Dakota Lerat. At the time of the murder, Dakota was serving a sentence of two years less a day at the Regina Correctional Centre. He remembered that somewhere along the line, his red bandana had disappeared, but his memory of the period during which he lost the scarf was hazy. He was free-basing crack cocaine, and Dakota admitted that, at that point, scoring rock pretty well occupied his thoughts 24/7. When the police questioned him, Dakota was adamant on one point. He wanted his fucking bandana back.

  The police were looking into Redd Rage’s encounters with other gangs during the months before Cronus’s murder, but Debbie admitted that trying to find the person who lifted Dakota’s bandana was like searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack.

  The investigation into the trashing of Darryl Colby’s office was also proving to be an exercise in futility. There were no fingerprints. The cash on hand was left untouched. The computers and office equipment were new and expensive, but nothing was taken. It seemed logical to conclude that the intruders had been searching for Cronus’s files.

  Jill was running into brick walls too. The circumstances surrounding Cronus’s death were murky, so Jill was following every rumour and talking to every possible source. It was time-consuming and aggravating work, but Jill was optimistic that once she found the weak spot in the campaign’s protective shell, she could crack through to the truth. The combination of living in the house on Regina Avenue with which she was so familiar and tracking the rumours about who wanted Cronus dead and why Mayor Ridgeway’s public appearances since Labour Day had been few and far between was proving tonic for Jill. We spoke on the phone frequently, and she sounded buoyant, but we were both busy, and our calls always seemed to get cut short. I longed for a quiet evening where we could simply sit and talk without interruption. My chance came the following Friday. Zack was speaking at a legal colleague’s retirement dinner, and Taylor was away for the weekend at her friend’s farm.

  That morning the market had fall vegetables so perfect that they didn’t need tarting up, and the dinner I’d prepared was simple and vegetarian. Jill brought wine. The weather was pretty enough for us to have our drinks on the terrace. When we stretched out on the chaises longues, Jill gazed critically at our outfits. She was wearing blue jeans, a grey-and-black-striped V-neck, and sneakers, and I was wearing blue jeans, my favourite green cashmere pullover, and sneakers. “I see we both dressed for dinner,” she drawled.

  “This is like the old days when Ian was out of town and you’d come over and help me get the kids to bed,” I said. “It’s been too long, Jill.”

  She sipped her Chablis thoughtfully. “It has,” she agreed. She closed her eyes and sighed contentedly. “Sunshine. And my best friend and a glass of wine within arm’s reach. Perfection.”

  “So life is good?” I said.

  Jill’s eyes were still closed. “Graham Meighen called today to invite me to lunch.”

  “How did that come about?”

  “I’ve been gathering information on everyone connected with the Ridgeway campaign. Graham said if I had questions he’d be willing to answer them over lunch.”

  “Are you going to take him up on his invitation?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “It would be useful for us to know more about him,” I said. “Zack and I had dinner with Graham and his wife last Sunday night. They lost their daugh
ter a year ago, and Liz is struggling. Graham seemed very concerned about her.”

  “Seemed,” Jill said. “You doubt that his concern was genuine?”

  “It could be, but the timing of the invitation was interesting – he phoned the morning after Zack did Quinlan Live.”

  “So why is that significant?”

  “Because the night we had dinner with the Meighens, I realized that Liz Meighen was Cassandra. Graham must have known it was only a matter of time until I identified Liz as the caller. I think the dinner was a pre-emptive strike. Jill, Liz Meighen is in bad shape. Sunday night she told me she was afraid she was suffering from dementia.”

  “And you believe Graham invited you to dinner, so you could see that his wife was non compos mentis. Nasty.”

  “Beyond nasty,” I said. “Liz made it clear that I should keep my distance, and I have, but I’m concerned about her.”

  “If I had lunch with Graham Meighen, I could ask about his wife,” Jill said. “I may be able to set your mind at ease about Liz Meighen. And … to be frank … I’m interested in meeting Graham. It’s been a while since I had a bad boy in my life.” Jill picked up the bottle of Chablis. “But I’ll jump off that bridge when I come to it. Let’s eat.”

  During dinner our conversation moved towards the changes in our lives. By any criteria Jill’s life was a success. Her career at NationTV was distinguished. She had earned the respect and the friendship of her colleagues and she had been generous in mentoring young people who sought careers in broadcasting. She was good company and she had never lacked friends or lovers. Yet that night as we sat at the dining table with the candles guttering, it was evident that something was missing. “There’s such peace in this house,” she said finally.

  “When Zack’s around, he shakes things up,” I said. “But I know what you mean. As we said in the 1960s, the vibes here are good.”

  “Because the vibe between you and Zack is good,” Jill said.

  “It is. Proving once again that it’s never too late to find the right partner.”

  “It’s too late for me,” Jill said. There was no self-pity in her voice. She was simply stating a fact. She shook her head impatiently. “Forget it. Ask me about my stepdaughter.”

  I laughed. “Okay, tell me about Bryn.”

  “She’s doing brilliantly,” Jill said. “She’s always loved fashion, and the fashion industry in New York loves her. She got another promotion, and she just bought a condo in Tribeca.”

  “A condo in Tribeca,” I said. “The fashion industry in New York must love Bryn.”

  “They do, but I was the one who paid for the condo.”

  “Do you see Bryn often?”

  Jill raised an eyebrow. “I saw her when I signed the cheque for her new digs.”

  “So you and she aren’t close.”

  “Bryn doesn’t need other people,” Jill said. “When I married Evan, I had this crazy idea that a loving stepmother could rescue Bryn from all the shit Evan and his family had piled on her.” Jill’s face fell. “It didn’t work. I thought I could heal the wounds, and I tried. I really did.”

  “Bryn had lived with Evan and his family for sixteen years,” I said.

  “And they had been tearing her apart from the day she was born,” Jill said. “She survived by creating a Bryn-centred world, and after the wedding she made it clear there was no room in that world for me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” Jill said. “But c’est la vie. And Mieka and the girls are giving me a crash course in family living. Madeleine and Lena are a joy, and Mieka and I are up half the night talking. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that connected to somebody. When the election’s over, it’s going to be hard to leave.”

  “Then don’t leave,” I said. “You’re not happy in Toronto. Why don’t you move back here?”

  “To be honest, I have been thinking about it. I just wasn’t sure how you’d feel.”

  “Where did that come from?” I said. “I’d be overjoyed. After Ian died, you and I were both shattered. We had to make decisions. You moved away and I tried to move on. We never had a chance to really knit our lives back together. If you lived in Regina, we’d have that chance.”

  Jill reached across the table and touched my hand. “In that case, I’ll start checking the real estate listings.”

  When Jill left, her face was suffused with the afterglow of good wine and open talk. I’d spoken the truth when I told Jill I’d be thrilled if she came back to Regina, but as I put our dishes in the dishwasher, my mood was less buoyant. Jill’s romantic history was a troubled one. She had an unerring instinct for finding men who treated her badly. Graham Meighen had never been anything but charming in my presence, but years as a trial lawyer had made Zack a trustworthy judge of character, and he’d been sure of his ground when he assessed Graham as a sociopath. Jill was a smart, hard-edged journalist, but when I looked at her, I still saw the vulnerable girl with the big smile and the untamable red hair who came to Ian’s office because she shared his principles. Remembering what some of the men she’d so casually referred to as “bad boys” had done to her, I was uneasy.

  Brock seemed lost in thought when we met on the stoop for our Monday run. I handed him the dogs’ leashes while I did my stretches. When I took back Willie’s leash, Brock was still preoccupied. “Bad weekend on the campaign trail?” I said.

  “No, actually it was a great weekend. We had to order more window signs and we’re getting a lot of positive feedback. All’s well on that front, but something disturbing happened.”

  We started down Halifax Street. “Do you want to talk about it?” I said.

  “Yes, because it’s something you and Zack should be aware of. I couldn’t get to sleep last night, so I brought my bike down and went for a ride. I’d been riding for about ten minutes when I sensed that someone was following me. I did a couple of those manoeuvres you see in thrillers …”

  “Doubling back on yourself, running a red?”

  Brock nodded. “It sounds like a B-movie when you describe it, but whoever was driving the car, a black SUV, stayed with me, and it was unnerving. I cut short my ride and headed for home. The SUV followed me and it stopped in the street, motor running, while I walked my bike up the ramp into the lobby.”

  I felt my nerves twang. “A man on a bicycle’s an easy target,” I said. “So is a man in a wheelchair. Maybe you should tell the police.”

  “No need.” Brock held out his hands. “I didn’t get a licence plate number, and nothing happened to me.”

  “That doesn’t mean nothing could,” I said. “Be careful, Brock, and do me a favour, tell Zack what happened, and don’t minimize the incident. I don’t want either of you to drop your guard.”

  We had a good run. It was one of those blue and gold September days when the idea of being inside breathing recycled air was sacrilege. When we got back to Halifax Street, I turned to Brock. “What have you got scheduled for this morning?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I’m keeping three mornings a week free for politicking.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Why don’t you and I drop off the dogs and spend the morning knocking on doors. I’ll bring my camera. It’s time for a new brochure and we’ll get some heartwarming pictures of you as a man of the people.”

  Ward 6 is the largest of Regina’s ten wards and it has the lowest voter turnout – in the last election, 14 per cent of its eligible voters came to the polls. That morning Brock and I drove to Broders Annex, an older inner-city neighbourhood of small but generally well-kept homes with pretty gardens. The residents of Broders Annex are a mix of retired people and young couples starting out, so our chances of finding people at home and open to a chat were good. Door-knocking is my least favourite part of campaigning, but on that bright day we were lucky. Many people were working outdoors, and it was rejuvenating to stand in the midst of the jewel tones of a fall garden, talking about the beauty of asters and exchanging ideas about how
Ward 6 could share in our city’s growth.

  It was getting close to lunchtime when we turned onto Toronto Street. A sandy-haired man who appeared to be in his seventies was raking his lawn. He was wearing a Saskatchewan Roughriders jersey. Brock and I exchanged a glance. “I think this one is for us,” I said.

  Brock went up and introduced himself and me. I exclaimed over the lush profusion of an autumn clematis climbing on the arch that led to the backyard. “This is such a great neighbourhood,” I said.

  “And we’d like to keep it that way,” the man said. There was something in his voice that raised my hackles. “There’s been talk of building infill housing across the street,” he went on. “A lot of us are not too happy about the prospect of getting the wrong kind of neighbours.”

  “What kind of neighbours are the ‘wrong kind’?” Brock asked mildly.

  “Well, no offence,” the man said. “A lot of them are Indians. Not Indians like you. You’re the right kind. I remember when you played for the Riders. You’ve always been a credit to your people, but there are some who just don’t know how to take care of things.”

  “There are all kinds of people who don’t know how to take care of things,” I said.

  “True,” the sandy-haired man said, “and you wouldn’t want them living across the street from you, would you?”

  “No,” I said, “I wouldn’t.”

  The man turned back to Brock. “Our current councillor from Ward 6 paid me a visit the other day. We exchanged ideas. Councillor Trotter is opposed to infill housing and he hinted that it’s not going to happen here on Toronto Street. Where do you stand on that?”

  Brock shrugged. “The city is already committed to purchasing the land in those vacant lots across the street from you and a number of other lots in the area. They’ve also committed to building low-income housing. All tenants in the new buildings will take a course in home maintenance as a condition of their lease.”