by Gail Bowen
A list of the numbers and addresses through which Charlie could be reached followed. The letter’s final paragraph was a call to arms. Jam the switchboard at his radio station with demands that he be fired. Phone him at home every hour on the hour. Make his life hell, the way he made her life hell. Join the Friends tomorrow night as we march to the house he shared with Ariel and demand answers to our questions. We will meet at 5:00 p.m. in front of the library where Ariel was murdered and march to the house on Manitoba Street that she tried so often to leave.
I dialled Howard’s cellphone. “Trouble,” I said. “I just checked the Internet. There’s an open letter there you should see. Do you have access to Charlie’s computer?”
“It wouldn’t do me any good. I don’t even know how to turn one on.”
“Get Charlie to do it.”
“He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. Just out.”
“You’ve got to do better than that,” I said. “You have to stay with him.”
“Jo, you sound a little hysterical.”
“I am a little hysterical. Listen to this letter, Howard.” As I read, I tried to keep my tone flat, to defuse the words. It was impossible.
When I finished. Howard uttered an expletive that even he should have been ashamed of using. Then he muttered, “Lynch-mob mentality.”
“They’re grieving, and they believe they’ll never get justice. It’s a dangerous combination. I think Charlie should lie low for a while.”
“Stay at my place?” Howard said.
“You’re not exactly an unknown quantity yourself,” I said.
“Where then?”
I didn’t welcome the answer that presented itself. But Charlie was Marnie and Howard’s son and, whatever else he had done, I now believed he would have cut off his hand before he raised it against Ariel. “Charlie can stay with us,” I said. “There’s an extra bed in Eli’s room.”
“I’ll bring him over as soon as he gets back,” Howard said.
“I’ll leave the key under the planter on the front porch,” I said. “You may be late, and I’ve had enough today.”
“You and me both, kid,” Howard said. “I wonder if this is ever going to end.”
I slept fitfully, waiting for the sound of the key in the lock or of Charlie’s footstep. Neither came. The next morning when the alarm went off, I padded down to Eli’s room; the twin bed next to his was empty. Charlie hadn’t spent the night. In the pit of my stomach, I felt the stirrings of anxiety. When I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I remembered Duke Ellington’s famous response to someone who had commented on the bags under his eyes. “Those aren’t bags,” said Duke. “Those are stored-up virtue.”
It took a few passes with the concealer to mask my stored-up virtue, but by the time Taylor came in to show me her outfit, I wouldn’t have drawn attention in a crowd. Taylor, on the other hand, would have – for all the right reasons. On many days she was an eccentric dresser, but today she had obviously considered the solemnity of the occasion. She was wearing her Nova Scotia tartan kilt, matching cream turtleneck and tights, and the beaded barrettes Alex had bought her at last summer’s powwow at Standing Buffalo. The all-Canadian girl, and she was as excited as I could ever remember seeing her. I drove the two blocks to the Legislature with the Mouseland canvas, carefully wrapped and balanced against the back seat. Taylor and I carried it up the steps of the Legislature together.
Bev Pilon and Livia Brook were waiting for us by the commissionaire’s desk in the first-floor lobby. Livia appeared less haggard than she had in a week. Her skin was faintly pink, as if she’d spent some time outdoors, and her mass of grey and chestnut curls was pushed neatly back with a tortoiseshell hairband. Mercifully, she had decided against wearing the poppy-spattered shawl that Ariel had made, and her outfit was both simple and attractive: tan cotton jumper, white T-shirt, and Birkenstocks, the uniform for female academics of a certain age.
Bev Pilon’s look was corporate cool: a smart spring suit in apple green, honey hair artfully styled to look artless, makeup smoothly subtle. She beamed when she spotted Taylor, introduced herself, then took my daughter’s hand and headed for the stairs. Just as the ancient commissionaire noticed me struggling with the picture and came out of his booth, a cameraman from NationTV came through the front door. Kim took in the optics and waved off the commissionaire with a dazzling smile.
“Thanks, but we can handle this,” she said. Then, as cooperatively as the citizens of Mouseland, Bev Pilon, Livia Brook, and I carried Taylor’s canvas towards the rotunda where Marie Cousin and the grade-two class from Lakeview School were waiting for the presentation.
The ceremony didn’t take long. Livia presented Taylor with a plaque, then spoke gracefully of Ben Jesse’s commitment to making young people believe politics was an honourable profession. She quoted Ben’s comment that it was good for government when schools bring kids to see the Legislature in session, because when real children are present, our legislators are, occasionally, shamed into acting like adults. Bev accepted the jibe with a tinkling laugh and an impressive display of teeth. She gave Taylor a tiny Saskatchewan flag and a lapel pin, then summoned the cameraman from NationTV to get his interview. After my daughter had delivered her opinions on socialism, mice, and art, I went over to Marie Cousin.
“That was terrific,” I said. “And your subterfuge was brilliant. Anyway, I signed up as a parent-helper, so what’s next?”
Marie’s eyes were concerned. “You look a little weary,” she said. “Since the real purpose of your coming today was to see Taylor get her award, how about giving the tour a pass?”
“To use a word that Taylor tells me you believe should be kept in reserve, that would be awesome.”
The corners of Marie’s mouth turned up slightly. “Taylor told you about Cheops.”
“She did,” I said, “but at the moment, the idea of having the next hour to myself beats the prospect of seeing the pyramids by a country mile.”
We said our goodbyes, and then I joined Livia. She and I made our way back through the shadowy halls to the brilliant sunshine. After the chilly recycled air of the building, the warm outdoor air was seductively sweet. When Livia started towards her car, I was tempted to let her go, and head home to the lazy lounge on the deck, but the message of Ariel’s Web site was too urgent to ignore.
I went after her. “Livia, do you have a few minutes to talk?”
She shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“There’s a bench over there where we could have a little privacy,” I said, pointing to a green space between the Legislature and Albert Street.
We strolled along a path flanked by flowerbeds. In high summer, the area was a riot of colours and scents, but that May morning the spectacular beauty was still to come. Only the first tender green shoots of perennials and bedding plants were visible in the fresh-turned earth. The bench and the simple bronze memorial to Woodrow Lloyd opposite it were less than a minute’s walk away.
“I had no idea this place was even here,” Livia said. She moved closer so she could see the poem inscribed on the bronze. “ ‘The Road Not Taken,’ ” she said. “I haven’t thought of Robert Frost in a hundred years.”
“Most of us leave him behind after freshman English,” I agreed, “but I still like him.”
She came over and took a place at the other end of the bench, as far away as possible from me. “I assume you want to talk about the march tonight,” she said.
“Among other things,” I said. “Livia, do you have any idea who wrote that open letter?”
“ ‘To All Who Seek Justice’? I’ve come up with some possibilities. Nothing definite.”
“I thought at first it might have been Ann Vogel,” I said, “but she was a student of mine. I’m familiar with her writing. Even with the spell-checker and grammar check, she couldn’t have managed this. The constructions are too sophisticated.”
“
I would have said Solange. She’s the one who travels in the really radical feminist circles. The women she knows wouldn’t stick at publishing an autopsy photo.” Livia ran a hand through her hair distractedly. “Why does it matter?”
“Because that letter is an incitement to mob action, and mobs are unpredictable and dangerous. This march would be a lousy idea even if Charlie Dowhanuik were guilty, and I don’t believe that he is.”
“Do you know something the rest of us don’t?”
“Just that Ariel had another close relationship that was causing her concern.”
Livia gnawed her lip. “Solange,” she said finally. “We should have been more careful.”
“ Who should have been more careful?”
“Those of us on the committee that appointed her.” Livia’s face was etched with regret. “Her references were… questionable.”
“The files for the short-listed candidates were circulated. I read them all. Solange’s letters of reference were glowing. Ariel’s letters were the ones that seemed doubtful. All her referees were positive, but, as I recall, at least two of them expressed reservations about her commitment to academic life. They picked up on the same ambivalence the committee sensed in her interview.”
“There were other considerations,” Livia said crisply. “I phoned all the referees, pressed them to give me more detailed profiles than a letter would permit. The people with whom Ariel had studied spoke so eloquently about her potential that I knew we had to have her.”
“Even if she wasn’t certain this was where she wanted to be,” I said.
“This was where she wanted to be. Joanne, when I met Ariel at the women’s retreat at Saltspring, there was an immediate kinship. Despite the difference in our ages, we were at parallel stages in our lives. We were both at that point where… what was it Frost said?”
“ ‘Two roads diverged,’ ” I said.
“That’s it exactly, and because each of us knew how the other felt, we were able to support one another. That was the mandate of the retreat: women empowering women.”
“And you empowered Ariel to continue to her studies.”
Livia’s eyes were shining. “Yes, and she empowered me to find my essential self.”
“So that’s why you supported her candidacy when she applied here.”
“It was a good decision. Solange wasn’t. As you say, on paper she was perfect. But when I spoke to her referees, all three of them alluded to psychiatric problems in her past.”
“Livia, if universities went through their faculties and fired everyone who’d ever seen a shrink, post-secondary education would grind to a halt.”
“Solange’s difficulties go well beyond trouble dealing with a stressful environment. She’s obsessive. She was obsessive about Ariel when Ariel was alive and she’s still obsessive about her. Wouldn’t you characterize as obsessive all the hours she’s spent riding that bike of hers? Even our students are concerned. A young man who was in one of Solange’s classes was at a loft party in the warehouse district a couple of nights ago. When he came out, he saw Solange riding her bike. It was two-thirty in the morning, Joanne. Our student offered to put the bike in his trunk and drive Solange home, but she just rode away. The student said Solange looked, and I’m quoting, ‘as if she needed professional help.’ ”
“Grief isn’t guilt,” I said.
“I’m not saying Solange is guilty of anything.” Livia’s voice was tight. “I’m just saying she’s unbalanced, and that means there’s no way of predicting what she is or is not capable of doing.”
I thought of the girl at the Ice Capades, so determined to survive that, even as her body was being violated, she was able to find refuge in imagining that the cheap sequinned costume of a professional skater could be protective armour. Solange had spent a lifetime creating a persona that would make her impervious to assault. Not many of us had seen the woman beyond the persona, but Ariel had. Solange had allowed Ariel Warren into her private world. How had she reacted when Ariel announced that she no longer wanted to be a part of that world, that she wanted a different kind of life, one that didn’t include Solange? Charlie’s words echoed. “She’s done some terrible things.” How terrible was “terrible”?
“I think we have to talk to Bob Hallam about this,” I said. “If he knows how fragile Solange is, he’ll be gentle with her. I can call him if you like.”
“No.” Livia’s response was swift. “I’ll handle this, Joanne. It was my mistake. I’ll fix it.” Her voice had been so decisive, I expected her to head straight for the parking lot; instead, she stopped before the cairn with the copper plaque. Then, in a small, private voice, she read the third stanza of
‘The Road Not Taken.’ And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
The gesture seemed stagy, theatrical, but when Livia turned, her eyes were filled with tears. “Why is it that we never know how ‘way leads on to way’ until it’s too late?” she asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, she walked away.
CHAPTER
12
“To paraphrase my favourite old lizzie, Gertrude Stein, ‘a cage is a cage is a cage.’ ” Ed Mariani and I were standing in front of the pastel silk and bamboo pleasure dome that housed his nightingale, Florence. “Barry and I can’t bear to come into this room any more. It’s so depressing.” Ed shot me a sidelong glance. “Taylor was quite taken with the whole set-up. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in
…?”
“Not for all the tea in China. Willie is already grinding me down, and if you think a caged Florence is a bummer, consider how you’d feel if Bruce and Benny decided to make her the blue plate special.”
Ed laughed grudgingly. “You’re sounding chipper.”
“I’m faking it,” I said. “It’s been one hell of a week, and it’s not showing signs of improvement.”
A shaft of sunlight hit the corner of Florence’s cage, and Ed adjusted a plum-blossom silkscreen to diffuse it. “I’ve been keeping up with the Web page,” he said. “Ann Vogel is pulling out all the stops. If she’s not careful, she’s going to find herself in court. That letter is libellous.”
“Livia doesn’t think Ann Vogel wrote it,” I said. “According to Livia, Solange is the one who travels in circles so ideologically pure they would have no compunction about making autopsy photos public if it served the cause. I tend to agree with Livia about Ann, but not for the same reason. When she was my student, even subject-verb agreements strained her thought processes, and that letter is elegantly written.”
“The phrasing may be elegant, but it reflects an ugly mind.”
“Or a troubled one,” I said. “This morning Livia told me that Solange has a history of psychiatric problems.”
Ed frowned. “And this just came to light?”
“Livia knew,” I said. “Apparently when Solange applied for the job here, Livia called her referees and encouraged them to open up.”
“The new and improved Livia is a thorough woman,” Ed said dryly. “I’ve always believed that needlepoint she hung in her office when she became department head was intended as a warning to us all. ‘No Surprises.’ ” He shuddered. “So what was Solange’s surprise?”
“Livia says clinical depression.”
Ed winced. “That’s a nasty one. More to the point,” he said thoughtfully, “it doesn’t fit.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I remember what it was like when the vulture was hovering. Thanks to Barry and Prozac, my bouts with depression are in the past, but when it was at its worst, I could barely manage to put on my socks in the morning. If she truly is suffering from depression, I don’t think Solange would be capable of organizing this latest campaign.”
I took a deep breath. “Would she be capable of committing murder?”
Ed’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Charlie told me last night that when Ariel told Solange she was moving on, there was a lot of anger.”
Ed’s face registered surprise. “Did Solange’s relationship with Ariel go beyond friendship?”
“I don’t know that either.” I threw up my hands in defeat. “Even if it did, it’s no one’s business unless…”
“Unless the breakup ended violently,” Ed finished for me. “It happens, you know.”
“I know,” I said. “I just hope it didn’t happen in this case.” I picked up the stack of mid-terms from the coffee table. “Thank God for marking,” I said. “It keeps the fingers busy and the mind semi-engaged. And I owe it all to you. I really appreciate your proctoring the exam, Ed. Promise me you’ll let me return the favour.”
He gave me a smart salute. “Scout’s honour.”
When I reached into my purse for the car keys, my fingers hit the small box I’d been carrying around since Wednesday. I pulled it out and handed it to Ed with a flourish. “And here’s your merit badge for hospitality. Our family had a sensational Victoria Day weekend at the lake.”
Ed took out the sparrow and held it to the light. “Lalique,” he said. “I won’t say you shouldn’t have done it because I love her already, but these don’t come in Frosted Flakes.”
