by Gail Bowen
“Ellen’s grandmother lives in that house.”
“Was she connected with the sex club?”
“No. Cronus kept records of the tenants in each of his houses. During the period when 12 Rose Street housed the sex club, no one lived there. The owner of the club had a lease. Nell Standingready moved in the week after that terrible night and she’s lived there rent-free ever since. She had lived in one of the other houses Cronus owned. My guess is Cronus needed an ideal tenant who wouldn’t do anything to cause the authorities to visit 12 Rose Street. Nell Standingready has made the house a shrine to that child.”
“By this time tomorrow, the police will be destroying the shrine,” I said. “And they will have found the child who died because Scott Ridgeway wanted to have sex with a virgin. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough.”
I speeded up and started down the street. A sex worker wearing thigh-high boots, a micro mini, and an animal-print jacket stood under a streetlight at the intersection of Rose and 7th Avenue. It was a high-traffic area. She was carrying an umbrella, and as we passed, she waved at us with her free hand. I kept on driving.
Jill glanced back at the intersection. “She’s flagging you down, Jo.”
I made a U-turn, drove back towards the intersection, and pulled over. The woman ran across the street and approached the driver’s side of the Volvo. When I opened my window, the woman moved her umbrella back so I could see her face.
It was Angela. She was heavily made up and her hair was elaborately curled. She was breathless from the effort of running. “Joanne, I’ve been trying to get the nerve to call you, and here you are. I’m taking that martial arts class, and I’ve thrown Eddie out. I thought you’d like to know that.”
“That’s the best news I’ve had in a long time,” I said. “How are your children doing?”
“They’re good. Nell Standingready’s watching them when I’m at work.” Angela’s laugh was rough-edged. “Yeah, this is still what I do for a living.” She met my eyes. “It pays the bills, Joanne.”
“Got it,” I said. “Angela, if I came by the R-H Centre one day next week after your class, could we have coffee?”
This time there was no mistaking the derision in her laughter. “Like girlfriends,” she said. “I don’t see that happening, Joanne.”
Before I could respond, she ran back across the street.
Jill and I were both quiet as we drove to Whitman Convalescent. Jill broke the silence. “What are you going to do about your friend back there?”
“Angela?” I said. “I’m going to keep showing up at the R-H Centre after her martial arts class until she agrees to have coffee with me.”
“Are you bucking for sainthood?”
“Nope. My mother used to say I never knew when to leave well enough alone. She also told me at least once a day that I was a pain in the ass. How are you doing?”
“I’m okay. Jo, do you think your children will ever forgive me?”
“It’ll take time, but they’ll come around.”
“Have you forgiven me?”
“Yes,” I said.
Jill reached in her bag and took out the rosary Anneta Kopchek had given her. “Good,” she said. “Because I’ve just about worn this thing out praying.”
It was a chilly evening. Zack had the fire roaring when Taylor and I arrived at the lake. There were steaks on a plate on the kitchen counter and the table was set.
Taylor took a cup of tea to her studio. Zack poured us both a martini, and we settled in on the couch in front of the fireplace. “So are you going to fill me in on what’s happened?” he said.
“Not yet,” I said. “Not until that fire has warmed my bones, we’ve had our drinks and our steaks, and we’ve devoted some serious time to that long, slow, deep, soft, wet kiss.”
“The one that last three days?”
“We’re going to have to settle for the abbreviated version tonight,” I said. “The enormity of what’s ahead is starting to sink in. I saw Angela this afternoon, Zack. She’s back working the streets.”
“So the struggle continues,” Zack said. “But now we have a chance to do our part. You did a hell of a job managing the campaign, Jo. You totally outkicked your coverage.”
I put my head on Zack’s shoulder. Our bodies were close and I could feel his warmth. “At times like this I really believe that there’s nothing we can’t do,” I said.
Zack sipped his drink. “Keep believing,” he said. “Keep believing, and we may just make it happen.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to:
Hildy Bowen, Brett Bell, Max Bowen, Carrie Renner Bowen, and Nathaniel Bowen for sharing their knowledge about the many things I don’t know and for their love and laughter.
Kai Langen, Madeleine Bowen-Diaz, Lena Bowen-Diaz, Chesney Langen Bell, Ben Bowen-Bell, Peyton Bowen, and Lexi Kate Bowen for being the light of our lives.
Rick Mitchell, retired Staff Sergeant in Charge of Major Crimes Section, Regina Police Service, for reading the manuscript of 12 Rose Street twice and for his incisive comments.
Najma Kazmi, M.D., for seeing her patients as people and meeting their needs with grace and skill.
Ryan B. Eidness, M.D., for his excellent diagnostic and surgical skills and his gentle manner.
Lara Hinchberger, my editor, and her associate, Kendra Ward, for editorial work that was nothing short of brilliant.
Heather Sangster, extraordinary copy editor and sister dog lover.
Ashley Dunn, for being Ashley Dunn – perfect in every way.
Mark Summers (Cap’n Slappy) and John Baur (Ol’ Chumbucket), the Pirate Guys, for generosity and good cheer.
Finally, thanks once again to the City of Regina, which continues to allow me and my family to live rich and meaningful lives. J.S. Woodsworth once said, “What we desire for ourselves we wish for all.” Those words were never far from my mind when I wrote 12 Rose Street. Regina is a great city, but there is work to be done.
I have tried to portray our city truthfully, but my novels are fiction. In 12 Rose Street, I have created a mayor and city council who serve my narrative purposes but who bear no resemblance to our real mayor and city council. The mandate of Regina’s real mayor and city council is to make this a great city for all its citizens. It’s a big job, but they are working tirelessly to make J.S. Woodsworth’s ideal a reality.
