12 Rose Street

by Gail Bowen

  “Money is a powerful aphrodisiac,” Margot said. She stretched lazily. “Soup’s ready. Do you want a refill for that drink?”

  “No, that hit the spot, but I trust Jasmina’s cabbage soup to do the rest.”

  I always enjoyed Margot’s company and the food was comforting. As I was leaving Lexi awakened, so I managed to work in a snuggle and a gummy grin. My hour at Margot’s had been a happy one, but my concern about Liz nagged at me, and despite everything, I was worried about Jill. By the time I walked across the hall to our condo, I’d decided to call her.

  When I picked up the phone, my nerve failed, so I took the coward’s way out and sent Jill a text. “Disturbing rumours about Graham Meighen. Don’t get involved with him.” I hadn’t expected to hear from Jill, and by six o’clock when she hadn’t acknowledged receipt of the text, I assumed her silence was my answer.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Howard Dowhanuik buzzed from our lobby early Thursday morning. It was chilly, and when Howard arrived on the doorstep his cheeks were still rosy. Howard was a political animal, and the campaign had reinvigorated him. He was wearing a black cable-knit crewneck sweater and the red toque with a pom-pom that one of his daughters had knit for him. “You look like an ad for one of those enriched living retirement homes,” I said.

  “Still sassy after all these years,” Howard said. “How about a cup of coffee? It’s cold out there.”

  I poured Howard’s coffee and we sat together at the butcher-block table. “I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “I heard some disturbing news about Graham Meighen yesterday, and I sent Jill a text warning her about him. Since the last time I encountered her, I told her that I wanted her out of our lives, I understand why she’s ignoring the messenger, but I need to make certain she’s paying attention to the message. Could you talk to her?”

  Howard’s head-shake was vehement. “She wouldn’t listen to me, but, Jo, she would listen to you.” Howard’s gaze could still pierce. “If Jill thought you cared enough about her to deliver the message in person, she’d take it seriously.”

  “It’s not happening, Howard.”

  He sipped his coffee. His eyes hadn’t left my face. “Why not? Jill’s staying at the Hotel Saskatchewan, Suite 806. Just knock on her door and tell her. You don’t even have to go inside.”

  “Howard, these days, I don’t like the person I become when I’m around Jill.”

  “Then don’t be that person,” Howard said. “I won’t minimize what Jill and Ian did, but you and the kids survived. You have a future. Ian’s dead and Jill wishes she was dead. She called me last night. She knows you’ll never forgive her, but she’s hoping that if she gets the inside story on Graham Meighen’s role in the Ridgeway campaign she can help Zack get elected.”

  “And in the process she’ll get a story that will be a poke in the eye to the young turks at NationTV. Howard, Jill is not involving herself with Graham Meighen so she can get Zack elected. She’s after a story, and she’s prepared to do what it takes to get what she wants.”

  “But you think she’ll get more than she bargained for with Graham Meighen.”

  “I do.”

  “Then tell her. Jo, I know you, and if anything happened to Jill because you hadn’t warned her, you’d never forgive yourself.” Howard was still wearing his red knit toque, and the combination of his hangdog look and the pom-pom defeated me.

  “All right, I’ll go,” I said.

  Suddenly, Howard was all brisk efficiency. “I’ll get your jacket. You’ve always believed in getting the tough stuff out of way early in the day.”

  I was at the hotel by nine o’clock. Howard was right. I’d always believed in getting the tough stuff out of the way early, and facing Jill would be tough. As I walked across the blue and gold carpet of the hotel lobby, I was tense. When Graham Meighen stepped out of the elevator not ten feet from where I was standing, his focus was wholly on his phone, but I didn’t want to risk being seen so I stepped into Coco’s, the patisserie that faced the elevators and watched him.

  Graham was elegant. As always, he was deeply tanned; his silver hair was artfully tousled, his dusky blue-striped tie complemented his grey three-piece suit. He was the image of success, but he was scowling. Clearly, the information he was getting was not to his liking.

  When Graham disappeared down the stairs that led to the hotel exit, I turned my attention to the patisserie’s offerings. Thanksgiving was approaching and the shop was redolent of the spices of autumn. In addition to the usual trays of macaroons, profiteroles, croissants, éclairs, and cookies, the display cases were bright with tarts filled with fresh-picked fall fruit: cherries, apples, blackberries, and peaches. A three-tier stand on the counter held pumpkin cupcakes, each topped with a buttercream rose. Jill loved anything pumpkin, and without thinking I gestured to the woman behind the counter and told her I was ready to order. Then the image of Jill with Ian flashed through my mind. I waved off the woman behind the counter and walked out of Coco’s empty-handed.

  I hesitated in front of the door to Suite 806. My impulse was to retrace my steps, press the call button for the elevator, and escape. But I knew I’d regret turning away. I knocked. Jill answered almost immediately. She opened the door wide. She was clearly expecting someone, but it wasn’t me. She was wearing a filmy ecru negligee; her makeup was fresh and her hair was carefully styled. She pulled the door half shut behind her. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “Graham,” I said. “I saw him cross the lobby while I was waiting for the elevator. He didn’t see me. May I come in?”

  Jill stood aside and gestured towards two flowered couches that faced each other in front of the window. The remains of a room service breakfast for two were on the table between the couches. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “I won’t stay. Jill, I sent you a text last night.”

  “I received it. I appreciate your concern. I really do, Jo, but I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you? I glanced at the dishes on the room service tray. I assume you and Graham are sleeping together?”

  Jill didn’t flinch. “There’s no reason not to. You made it clear that there’s no place for me in your family’s life, and Graham wants me to be part of his.”

  “So it’s serious.”

  “Graham says his marriage is over,” she said. “We’re attracted to each other. He needs me, Jo. People are turning away from him.”

  “Follow their example,” I said. “Graham Meighen is dangerous. Zack believes he’s a sociopath. Leland Hunter said he lacks a conscience. And Liz Meighen thinks Graham is working with her doctor to convince her that she’s losing her mind so he can get control of her money—”

  Jill cut me off. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Jo.”

  Despite her long affair with Ian, I was afraid for her. “Be careful,” I said. “You’re playing with fire.”

  She shrugged. “When you have nothing left to lose, playing with fire is no big deal.”

  The ad agency had assembled a rough cut of the commercial they’d made of Zack and Brock’s press conference. They delivered it to our place around four. Zack phoned Brock and invited him to come upstairs and check out the ad, and I asked Margot and Lexi to join us.

  The ad was eye-catching and powerful: shots of Brock touring the slum houses juxtaposed with shots of one of the houses Peyben workers were making habitable for winter. The ad closed with Zack standing in front of 12 Rose Street answering Jill’s question about the choice of venue for the press conference, delivering his challenge about getting involved, and quoting Edmund Burke.

  When the screen went blank, Margot leapt to her feet, raised Lexi in her arms, and twirled. “We’re giving you a standing ovation,” Margot said. “And Lexi and I do not hand these out indiscriminately.”

  Zack whipped out his phone to capture the moment, and we were all still smiling when the landline rang. I was closest.

  It was Jill. Her voice was strained. �
�I have bad news,” she said. “Liz Meighen committed suicide this morning. Graham asked me to call you. He knew how fond you were of Liz.”

  Suddenly I was very cold. “What happened?”

  “A drug overdose,” Jill said. “Graham’s devastated. He’s been afraid of this for weeks. Liz called sometime after midnight. Graham was on the phone with her for close to an hour. When he came back to bed, he said he tried to convince Liz that she had everything to live for, but she was so confused and depressed that he couldn’t get through to her. Finally, she hung up on him.”

  “Did he try to get help for her?”

  “He didn’t know where she was. Graham asked Liz to let him talk to someone at the place where she was staying, but she refused.”

  “Jill, did you actually hear Graham’s side of the conversation?”

  “No. He took the phone in the other room because he didn’t want to awaken me. I know what you’re getting at, Jo, but you couldn’t be more wrong. Graham is in shock. His marriage to Liz might have been over, but she was part of his life for thirty-eight years, and he’s determined to do the right thing. He’s already on his way to Calgary to bring Liz home.”

  I could feel the anger rise in my throat. “That’s very high-minded of him, especially since he was in bed with you when Liz made that desperate call.”

  Jill didn’t bother responding. She just hung up.

  While I was talking to Jill, Zack, Margot, and Brock had fallen silent. They were looking at me expectantly.

  “Liz Meighen committed suicide this morning,” I said, then I turned to Brock and told him what I knew about Michael’s involvement.

  Brock stood abruptly. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

  “Because I didn’t know whether Liz was delusional. I still don’t. But she’s dead now. Brock, I have to pass along what I know to the police.”

  “If Michael did what Liz suspected he did, he could lose his licence,” Brock said.

  Margot was curt. “If Michael did what Liz suspected he did, he should lose his licence.”

  Taylor had come from school and gone straight to her studio to work, so only Zack and I were at the condo when Debbie arrived. She looked exhausted. It had been a month to the day since Cronus was murdered. The police had followed every lead and gotten nowhere. The black SUV that had forced me off the road and presumably followed Brock the night before had been found. It was stolen and whoever had been driving it knew a thing or two about DNA because the forensics team reported that the car was clean as a whistle. The police were still investigating the home invasion at Peggy’s. And now Liz Meighen was dead – an apparent suicide but certainly a lucky spin of the wheel of fortune for her husband.

  I brought Debbie coffee and told her that I’d learned about Liz’s death from Jill Oziowy, and that Jill was now Graham Meighen’s girlfriend. Then I told her everything I knew about Liz. Debbie’s pencil was flying. When I was through, Debbie closed her notebook and picked up her coffee cup. “Jo, do you believe Liz Meighen committed suicide?”

  Zack moved his chair closer to me and took my hand. “I do,” I said. “But something happened to Liz between the luncheon on September 2 and yesterday afternoon when she called me. At the luncheon, people were sharing their memories of Beverly. Bev was Liz’s only child, and as the program went on, Liz was clearly suffering, but she was in control. Yesterday she was disintegrating. She alluded to problems with the medication she was taking. She said it made her confused and anxious. Liz was extraordinarily articulate, but when she was trying to relate something Graham had told her she forgot a simple word and she crumbled. It was heartbreaking. She said, ‘I’m losing my words. I’m losing myself.’ Then she said. ‘Don’t trust anybody,’ and hung up.”

  Debbie had picked up her notepad again. “What do you think changed between September 2 and this morning?”

  “I think Michael Goetz prescribed medication that interfered with Liz’s thought processes, and that Graham pushed her into a state where she saw suicide as the only option.”

  Debbie turned the page in her notebook. “So you think I should interview Dr. Goetz and Mr. Meighen.”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Do you have any idea where Meighen is?”

  “Jill Oziowy told me he’s already in Calgary. According to her, he wants ‘to bring Liz home.’ ”

  Zack raised his eyebrows. “The grieving widower isn’t wasting any time.”

  Debbie was acerbic. “I hope the Calgary police aren’t wasting any time getting to Meighen and keeping him away from the scene of the suicide.”

  Zack and I moved into the living room while Debbie made her calls. It was nearly ten minutes before she joined us. “We’re finally getting somewhere,” she said. “Mrs. Meighen was staying at a retreat house about forty-five minutes from Calgary. When she didn’t show up for breakfast, one of the staff checked her room and found her body. It was 8:30 a.m. Calgary time.”

  “I saw Graham Meighen leaving the hotel where his girlfriend was staying at 9:00. He seemed preoccupied. I guess he was getting the news about Liz.”

  “But the staff at the retreat house did call the police,” Zack said.

  Debbie shook her head. “No, apparently, they’re kind of otherworldly. They called the next of kin, and then they waited for the universe to unfold. And it did.” Debbie consulted her notes. “Mr. Meighen caught the 10:30 flight from Regina and was in Calgary by 12:00 their time. It took him an hour to get to Bragg Creek. So he was alone with the body from, say, one to three o’clock when he decided the police should be called in.”

  “Two hours,” Zack said. “Plenty of time to get rid of anything of evidentiary value.”

  “The RCMP are on the case now. They do the policing in the Bragg Creek area, and they’ll be doing exactly what they should do in the case of a suicide. From now on, it’s by the book. They’ll determine the victim’s identity, the cause of death, and the approximate time and date of death. They’ll do a preliminary examination of the body. They’ll examine the scene for consistency or inconsistency of facts. They’ll interview the other people at the retreat house. They’ll seize items of value: jewellery, money, et cetera, and they’ll look for the suicide note, pills, pill bottles with the names of the victim and the prescribing physician. And that’s where the fun will begin. Because Zack’s right: Meighen had two hours in which to get rid of anything of evidentiary value.”

  “And no one would have stopped a grieving widower pleading for time alone with his dead wife.”

  “I’m going back to the station,” Debbie said. “Let me know if you hear anything.”

  After Debbie left, Zack made martinis and I rummaged through the fridge and the freezer for something for supper. The larder was bare. I turned to Zack. “There’s enough frozen spaghetti sauce for two. We are three. There’s also a meatloaf that’s been in the freezer way too long. Order in?”

  Zack reached into our “order in” drawer of menus. “What are you in the mood for?”

  “Fish and chips,” I said.

  “Fish and chips it is.” Zack handed me my martini, picked up his phone, hit speed-dial, and ordered. “Dinner will be here at 6:30,” he said. He raised his glass. “To Liz Meighen.”

  “May she find peace at last,” I said. “Zack, the hours before her death must have been excruciating for her. Jill said Liz called Graham some time after midnight. She was despondent and incoherent. According to Jill, Graham tried strenuously to convince Liz that life was worth living.”

  “And he failed,” Zack said. “Jo, I think we’ve come to the end of the road with this.”

  “If Debbie checks the phone records, I’m certain she’ll find out that Graham was the one who made the call.”

  “And that will make no difference whatsoever,” Zack said. “Meighen will say it was the middle of the night and he was groggy. He’ll admit that he could be mistaken about who called whom, but he’ll be clear about what was said. Graham’s holding all the
cards. Liz is no longer alive to tell her side of the story. Even if emotional abuse was the root cause for Liz’s suicide, emotional abuse is not a crime; it’s just a reason to leave a relationship.”

  “And so Graham Meighen gets away with it,” I said.

  “The only way the prosecution could successfully argue that Meighen’s abusive behaviour somehow constituted criminal negligence would be if they had proof that Michael Goetz and Graham conspired to drive Liz to the brink. That would mean proving that Michael Goetz knowingly prescribed medication that would harm Liz.”

  “And Graham will have disposed of any pills or pill bottles that would link Michael Goetz to the drugs Liz was taking,” I said. “But, Zack, they were prescription drugs; the pharmacist would have records.”

  “How many free pharmaceuticals do you think come into a psychiatrist’s office? Doctors always have a drawer full of freebies. As you know only too well, all sorts of aggravations come with paraplegia. When I’m in Henry Chan’s office because something’s gone wrong for me, more often than not Henry just hands me some samples and says ‘Let’s see if these work.’ ”

  “And there’s no record of those samples,” I said. “So Michael Goetz and Graham Meighen get away scot-free.”

  “The justice system is not always just, Jo. That’s still hard for me to accept, but it’s a fact of life.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  Liz Meighen’s funeral was scheduled for 10:30 a.m. on Thursday, October 9, a day before the Thanksgiving long weekend. Zack and I had gone back and forth about the propriety of him attending the funeral of Graham Meighen’s wife, knowing that the whole Ridgeway team would be there. But Zack knew it would be a difficult morning for me, and for him, that was all that mattered.

  The service was being held at St. Paul’s Cathedral, our church. After Bev’s death, Liz had apparently become a regular worshiper at St. Paul’s nine o’clock Sunday service and at the Wednesday morning service as well. She was also a regular attendant at the monthly Eucharists in the columbarium beneath the church. Bev Levy’s ashes were there, and Liz’s will stipulated that the urn with her ashes be placed in the same case as her daughter’s.