by Gail Bowen
I hadn’t talked to Milo about orchestrating our callers, but I recognized many of the voices relaying our campaign’s talking points about the favouritism and lack of transparency of the Ridgeway administration, its indifference to the poor and marginalized, and its lack of a coherent policy for future sustainable development.
Our supporters pitched some low balls, but they were well within the range of robust rhetoric. The attacks on Zack were unrelentingly ugly and ad hominem. Zack was the criminal’s friend, he had gang connections, his family’s lavish lifestyle was financed by the dregs of society. Quinlan cut off one particularly vitriolic caller but not before she had accused Zack of being a gambler, a drinker, and a fornicator who lacked the moral strength to lead our city.
I was boiling, but Zack sounded sanguine. He thanked the caller for her time, repeated one of his favourite lines, “I have committed many sins but no crimes,” and began talking about his plans for Regina.
I smiled when I heard the voice of the next caller. It was Peggy Kreviazuk, and she was in full take-no-prisoners mode. “Zack Shreve has been open about the mistakes he’s made in the past,” she said. “I don’t approve of personal attacks, but Scott Ridgeway and our current city council are puppets of Graham Meighen and his associates at Lancaster Development. I have questions about the character and behaviour of Meighen and his crowd. This is not mudslinging. There are serious questions and we deserve serious answers.
“Three years ago the Ridgeway campaign responded to public pressure and promised immediate action on affordable housing. Last year the mayor announced the city had designated certain properties on Rose Street and other areas of Ward 6 as sites of future infill housing. I have it on good authority that the city has paid out hundreds of thousands of dollars for these properties, but the money did not go to the owner of the properties. It went into the pockets of Lancaster Development so that they could buy the Rose Street houses, tear them down, and replace them with condominiums they would sell at market value. Mr. Mayor, you have appeared only at select carefully staged events since Labour Day. Step forward and answer questions about why the taxpayers’ money has ended up in Lancaster’s pocket.”
Graham Meighen’s image was still on the screen in front of me, and Liz Meighen’s warnings were stamped on my consciousness. My heart was pounding. The mayoralty race was already a high-stakes game, and Peggy had just upped the ante.
Jack Quinlan was smooth. “Those are provocative questions,” he said. “Mayor Ridgeway and Mr. Meighen deserve a chance to answer them. I’d like to extend an invitation to both the mayor and Mr. Meighen to join me on Quinlan Live at a time and date of their choosing.”
The top of the hour meant time for the news. Zack called me before the newsreader had finished the first sentence of the first story. “Jo, I know you wouldn’t send out an eighty-two-year-old woman to do our dirty work, but do you think Peggy was right?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “I didn’t know Lancaster was planning to build condos on those properties. I certainly hadn’t heard the city had given the money allocated for the infill housing to Lancaster.”
“Well, it sounds like somebody knew, and that person fed the information to Peggy.”
“The informant would have had to be somebody Peggy trusted,” I said. “My guess is it was Jill. She knows Peggy from the old days when Ian was in government. Now she’s looking for a story. And Jill and Graham have obviously spent some time together. She could have unearthed the information about the condos and decided to set the cat among the pigeons to stir things up. I’ll see what I can find out. What time are you getting home?”
“With luck, before one.”
“Good. We can have a swim.”
“That’s not much of a carrot.”
“I’ll sweeten the pot.”
The glow I felt at the prospect of having Zack home didn’t last long. I had just closed down my laptop and picked up my jacket when Howard phoned. His greeting was not cheery. “What dunderhead is responsible for handing Peggy Kreviazuk that bombshell about Lancaster’s dirty dealings with the mayor’s office? Anybody who knows Peggy knows she wouldn’t make that information public anonymously. She might as well have painted a target on her chest.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m worried about that too. All I can tell you is that the information didn’t come from our campaign. We don’t know anything about the condos. I think Jill was the source, but I can’t deal with that now. Right now, I’m going over to Peggy’s to warn her about the Ridgeway campaign goons and plead with her to back off.”
Peggy lived in a neat bungalow in the Cathedral District. She was outside wearing her SHREVE T-shirt and raking leaves when I pulled up. There was a SHREVE sign on her front lawn.
She pointed to the street. “Check out the signage in my neighbourhood. Not a single Ridgeway sign. I know. I check every morning.”
“I wish we had a hundred volunteers like you,” I said. “Which brings me to the point of my visit. Peggy, I don’t want to lose you. That information you had about Lancaster is dynamite. I’m not sure going on Quinlan Live with it was the wisest course.”
Peggy leaned on her rake. “Neither was I, but the deed is done,” she said. “And Quinlan put the ball firmly in Ridgeway and Meighen’s court. It’s up to them to respond.”
“Who told you about Lancaster?”
Peggy’s expression was mischievous. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Was it Jill?”
“No, although she was here. You just missed her. She wanted to know the name of my informant too.”
“Did you tell her?”
“Of course not. Jill’s a friend, but she’s also a journalist, and I didn’t want to jeopardize my source.”
“But the source is trustworthy.”
“Absolutely.” Peggy hesitated before speaking again. “The information came from someone in the Office of the City Clerk.”
“The employee who’s slipped information your way before,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “And if my source’s identification became known, the consequences would be serious.”
“Understood,” I said. “But, Peggy, if you hear anything else, just pass it along to me. There are been a few incidents that we think are associated with the Ridgeway campaign. It might be dangerous to cross them. I’ll figure out a way to get the facts out without putting you in harm’s way.”
Peggy patted my hand. “I know you mean well, but I’ve always made my own decisions, and I’m not going to change now. I was born in this city, and I love it, but for the past decade and a half we’ve been governed by a gang of venal charlatans. It’s time they were called to account.”
“I agree. I just want you to be cautious. And, Peggy, be careful around Jill. She’s seeing Graham Meighen.”
Peggy was incredulous. “He’s the CEO of Lancaster. They’re what we’re fighting against.”
“Jill seems to have changed sides,” I said tightly.
“Have you and she had a falling out?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I really would rather not talk about it – not even with you.”
“In that case, we’ll talk about something that interests us both. Follow me into the backyard so I can show you the tulip bed I just dug.”
Peggy was a serious gardener. Her plantings of perennials reflected an intimate knowledge of our city’s inhospitable soil and unpredictable temperatures. In her garden as in her politics, Peggy had always fought back against implacable elements. I’d visited her backyard in all seasons. In spring and summer, it was a riot of colour and scent. But fall was in the air, and that late morning Peggy’s backyard had the spare beauty of a garden being readied for winter.
The tulip bed ran the full length of Peggy’s back fence. “I’m impressed,” I said. “That’s a lot of digging.”
“And a lot of planting and mulching, but it’ll be worth it when the tulips start peeking through,” she said.
“It will
be,” I said. “What colour did you plant?”
“Every colour,” Peggy said. “A good garden always has a few surprises.”
I took out my phone. “Go stand by your garden,” I said. “I’m going to take before-and-after pictures: one of your garden now and one when the tulips bloom.”
When I had my photo, Peggy walked me to my car. “Joanne, I won’t bring up the subject again, but you and Jill have been friends for a long time. Life’s too short to lose someone you care about. Jill’s proud. You may have to take the first step, but it will be worth it – for both of you.”
Peggy’s words stayed with me as I drove home. I knew she might be right, but I also knew I wasn’t ready. And then out of nowhere, a memory, from the summer after Mieka was born. Jill and Ian were supposed to go out of town for a meeting, but Jill called in the morning and said she wasn’t feeling well, so Ian would have to find another aide to go with him. I remember asking Jill if she had the flu, and she said she was just having a bad period.
It was a pretty day. I always took Mieka for an early walk and that morning I decided to walk down to Jill’s apartment to see if there was anything she needed.
Jill was a long time answering the buzzer. When she finally opened her door, I was glad I’d come. She was still in her nightgown. She was very pale and it was clear she’d been crying. The drapes were pulled and the room was gloomy. “I need to go into the bathroom,” she said. “I’m soaking through this pad.” When she turned, I saw that the back of her nightgown was bloody.
Mieka had fallen asleep in her carriage, so I covered her, helped Jill to the bathroom and out of her nightgown, then got towels and a basin of water to give her a sponge bath. After I’d bathed Jill and wrapped her in a towel, she told me where I could find a fresh nightie. When I opened the dresser drawer that held Jill’s lingerie, I saw two sleepers for a newborn and a baby sweater with a pattern of ducks.
I took the nightgown back to her. I told her I’d seen the baby clothes and I asked if it was possible she was having a miscarriage. She told me she’d been pregnant. She said she’d hoped to keep the baby, but the father said that was out of the question, so she’d had an abortion that morning. The nurse had told her to expect a certain amount of blood. I checked. Jill didn’t have a fever and she wasn’t in pain, so I changed her sheets and helped her back into bed.
Mieka and I stayed at Jill’s all day, and then I went home to make supper for the man who, in all likelihood, had impregnated her.
When I got back from Peggy’s, Zack phoned to say he was on his way from the airport. I set the table, took leftover gazpacho out of the refrigerator, popped a baguette into the oven, and put out a package of Zack’s favourite Boursin au poivre and a bowl of cherries and apricots I’d bought at the market on Saturday. Then, because it had been a difficult morning, I poured us each a glass of Merlot.
Zack was appreciative. “Wine, Boursin, and no swim trunks in sight.” He held out his arms. “I’ll do an extra twenty laps for the pleasure of just looking at you across the lunch table.”
We held to our rule of not talking about the campaign while we ate. Zack had met some old friends of mine on the plane coming back to Regina, so he passed along their news; we discussed whether I should order two turkeys for Thanksgiving or just a very large turkey and a ham. The kind of inconsequential conversation that is the glue of a loving family. We took our tea into the living room and Zack settled back in his chair. “Time to get back to the real world,” he said. “Did you find out who fed Peggy the questions about Lancaster?”
“Yes, I went to Peggy’s this morning. She told me her contact was her informant in the Office of the City Clerk.”
“So it wasn’t Jill.”
“No, but Jill did come to Peggy’s this morning and asked for the name of the source. She might have wanted the information for Graham or it might have just been for her story. The important thing is Peggy didn’t tell her. You and I are the only ones who know and we have to keep it that way.”
“Fair enough. If this gets out, whoever it is could lose his or her job.”
“And that can’t happen. Enough people have been hurt.”
Zack wheeled closer and took my hand. “Including you.”
I nodded. “Including me. I’m trying hard to move ahead, but as long as Jill’s around, I keep getting blindsided by memories.”
“Did something happen today?”
“Nothing new. Just a nasty epiphany. When Mieka was a baby, Jill had an abortion. She was in rough shape so I stayed with her. Today it occurred to me that the father was probably Ian.”
Zack touched my cheek. “If you’d known that Ian had fathered Jill’s baby, would you have walked away that day?”
“No,” I said. “I wouldn’t walk away from any woman who was going through that.”
“Then let it go,” Zack said gently.
“I’m trying,” I said. “But it’s complicated. Jill and I share so much history. She’s godmother to all my children and I was matron of honour at her wedding. So in one pan of the scales, there’s all that generosity and love, and in the other there’s fifteen years of betrayal. It’s tough to get the balance right.”
Zack kissed my hair. “You will,” he said. “Give yourself a little time.”
CHAPTER
11
Tuesday was the last day of September, and that morning when Angus arrived with the files on the Rose Street properties, the chill of autumn was definitely in the air. I’d made cinnamon buns, so the condo was filled with what a friend called “the scent of sentimentality.” Cinnamon buns had been a favourite of Ian’s, but Angus and I were not keen on remembering things past. In the twenty minutes we sat together at the butcher-block table, neither of us mentioned Ian’s name.
After we’d cleared the dishes, we got to work. When Angus piled the files on top of one another, the stack was a foot high. He looked at it dubiously. “Mum, if you want to, we can go through these one by one, but I can tell you that none of them contains an offer to purchase from the city. Cronus never received a cent of city money.”
“So Peggy was right,” I said. “I’ll bet some of the City Hall accountants pulled an all-nighter last night.”
Angus pushed back his forelock. “Creative Bookkeeping 101,” he said. “Zack says Cronus’s motto was maximum rent, minimum upkeep. That’s pretty much what the files indicate – except for the property at Number 12 Rose Street.”
“What’s the deal there?” I said.
“Well, a company called SPOT-LESS really does come to the house every two weeks to keep the place shipshape inside and out.”
“And up goes a red flag,” I said.
“It’s not the only one,” Angus said. “Mum, there’s something really off about the history of that house. Cronus bought the property in 2000. He gutted the house, added a second floor with three bedrooms and three bathrooms, ripped up the basement, and added what looks from the plans like a big recreation room and three more bathrooms.
“When the renovations were complete, the house was rented to a company called B&D Enterprises. B&D were there for six years, and during their tenancy SPOT-LESS came at least three times a week, sometimes more. After B&D left, there were more renovations to the basement and a woman named Nell Standingready moved in.”
“You’ve seen her,” I said. “She was at the press conference we held after we learned that we’d inherited Cronus’s houses. She quoted the Biblical passage about building a house on a firm foundation.”
“A powerful woman and a memorable one,” Angus said. “Anyway, she’s lived in the house rent-free since she moved in.”
“No other tenants?”
“No. Just Ms. Standingready. It’s an interesting situation.”
“And one worth looking into,” I said.
After Angus left, I drove out to Costco to get a cash card for Angela and her kids. When I came home, I put Willie on his leash. My shoulder wasn’t ready for handling both dogs, so I gave
Pantera a hug, a dog biscuit, and an apology, and Willie and I headed for Rose Street, filled with resolve. It was still early, and street action was minimal: a couple of boys riding bikes that had seen better days, a man pushing a shopping cart with a dartboard poised precariously on a green garbage bag filled with empty liquor bottles, a drunk who was vomiting copiously on the sidewalk, and a mini-skirted platinum blonde with legs that wouldn’t quit.
As I stood in front of Angela’s house, I was beset with the same fears that had nagged me since the morning I was run off the road. If I had been in Angela’s shoes, I would have loathed a woman like me whose family might not have been “fucking perfect” but who possessed all the tools they needed to make good lives. The metal sand pail was still lying on its side near the wire fence. When I spotted it, I remembered the little boy with the big spoon, and I knew that I’d passed the point of no return.
Jill had once told me that the easiest way to lure someone from their house was to begin taking pictures of it, so I positioned myself on the sidewalk, took out my phone, and started snapping away. It didn’t take long for the front door of Number 15 to open. Angela came out, sat on the stoop, gave me a cursory glance, lit a cigarette, and blew a plume of smoke into the fall air. Her face was bruised and her lip was swollen. She didn’t encourage communication, but the front gate was unlocked, so I joined her on the stoop. Angela had left the door open a crack and the hyperkinetic sounds of a kids’ show squawked from the TV inside.
Willie sprawled on the space in front of the steps. Angela tensed. “Your dog looks like a bear,” she said. “Is he okay with people?”
“He’s fine,” I said.
“Why are you taking pictures of the house?”
“It was just a trick to get you out here. I wanted to talk to you.”
Her face grew sullen. “About what?”
“About the house across the street – the mustard-coloured one.”
Angela laughed. “Were you wondering why the hell anybody would paint a house that colour?”
