by Gail Bowen
When we heard the door to Taylor’s studio close, Zack said, “So what are the odds that our daughter’s caller was one of her BFFS?”
“Minimal,” I said.
“Am I right to worry?” Zack said.
“Taylor’s almost fifteen. Most girls her age have been giggling on the phone with boys for a couple of years.”
“Julian isn’t most boys,” Zack said.
“Let’s hope Taylor realizes that sooner rather than later,” I said and began to clear the dishes. Zack picked up his cellphone, hit a number, and listened. After a moment, he turned it off.
“This isn’t good, Jo – I’ve been trying Vince all morning. His cell is off, he’s not at the hospital, and when I called the house, Lauren said he hadn’t been home at all.”
“Do you think he went on a bender after the auction?”
“I’m afraid that’s a real possibility.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I said. “I could call motels and see if Vince is registered anywhere.”
Zack shook his head. “If he’s drinking, he won’t register under his own name. Desk clerks require a financial incentive to cough up information about a guest who doesn’t want to be discovered, and that’s a transaction that has to be handled person to person. I’m going to take a little drive before the meeting and check out some of Vince’s old holing-up places.”
“I hope you find him,” I said. “For everyone’s sake.”
I’d just finished making our bed when Ben Bendure called. I hadn’t heard his voice since he delivered one of the eulogies at Sally’s funeral, but I recognized his rich, rumbling bass immediately.
“Ben, I was going to call you today to thank you for the DVDS. That was very thoughtful.”
In his note, Ben had mentioned that he was in failing health, but he still had an ear for nuance. “Very thoughtful,” he said, “but you haven’t watched them yet.”
“I tried,” I said. “I couldn’t get past that scene of you, Nina, and me having lunch at the lake.”
Unexpectedly, Ben laughed. “Even dead, Nina controls us,” he said. “I tried to edit out the scenes she was in, but I couldn’t.”
“Nina was part of our story,” I said.
“She was our story,” Ben said flatly. “She wrote our script; she directed us; she was our star; and she was so damn beautiful, it was almost impossible not to forgive her.” He paused. “I loved her, you know.”
“So did I,” I said.
Ben laughed again. “More fools us,” he said. “But I didn’t call to reminisce. I saw the picture of Sally’s daughter in the paper this morning. She’s obviously turned out well. That child lived through a nightmare. It’s a miracle that you got her past it.”
“She’s not past it yet,” I said. “Taylor never talks about her life before she came to live with me.”
“Does she remember it?”
“She says she doesn’t. She never mentions her father, although she lived with him for the first four years of her life, and she never mentions Nina.”
“Who was also a big part of her life,” Ben said. “Does Taylor talk about Sally?”
“She follows what’s said about Sally online.”
“Don’t we all? She’s been dead eleven years, but Sally still fascinates. The travelling retrospective of her work is a hot enough ticket for NationTV to replay The Poison Apple in January.”
“So the network will be promoting the show during the holidays,” I said.
“Good news for me but obviously not for you,” Ben said.
“I’m just concerned about Taylor. When she was little, she wanted to hear everything I could remember about Sally. She couldn’t get enough information. Once, when she was just five or six, we were visiting friends who owned one of Sally’s paintings. We found Taylor standing in front of the painting tracing its lines. She said, ‘My mother touched this, and now I’m touching it.’ ”
Ben’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “That must have been very moving.”
“It was. But now Taylor won’t look at the art Sally made.”
“I’m sorry, Jo.”
“So am I,” I said. “But I don’t know what to do about it.”
“From hard experience, I can tell you that the worst thing to do is ignore the problem,” Ben said. “That’s what I did for years after Sally died, and it tore me up. Finally, I decided I had to lay my ghosts.”
“So you made the documentary.”
“Dealing with all that archival material was pure hell, but it was worth it. When The Poison Apple was finished, I was finally able to move along. Of course, by that time I was seventy-eight years old.” For a beat he was silent. “Don’t let Taylor wait,” he said quietly, and then he broke the connection.
The dogs and I had just come down from our second visit to the roof garden that morning when Darrell Bell arrived with Two Painters. As he unpacked the crate, I felt a frisson of joy. Before we moved in, our condo had belonged to Leland Hunter. It had been decorated professionally, and the rooms were warm with the colours of Tuscany. One of the design features was a two-storey wall of exposed brick from the original warehouse. We had moved a round scrolled mahogany dining table and chairs close to the windows across from the wall so we could see the city as we ate. The area caught the morning light, warming the patina of the old brick. From the moment I saw Two Painters, I knew the piece belonged in that space. After Darrell hung the painting, we stood back and assessed it.
“You have a real prize there,” Darrell said. When I didn’t respond, he raised an eyebrow. “Buyer’s remorse?”
“Never,” I said. “That wall has been waiting for that painting. It’s such a strong work. It anchors everything else into place, and it’s beautiful. I love the light and the colours, and I love the subjects. I could look at it forever.”
Darrell’s voice was gentle. “But …?”
“Sally and Taylor have their backs to each other,” I said. “They’re so separate. There’s no connection between them.”
Darrell shook his head. “There’s a link, Joanne. They’re both making art, and for them that’s enough.”
“But it’s not enough,” I said, and I was surprised at the emotion in my voice. “Sally and Taylor are more than strangers who happen to share a passion. They’re mother and daughter. Taylor told me once that making art allows her to see what she’s been thinking all along. Look at the empty space she’s left between Sally and her.”
“Art is about space as well as colour,” Darrell said. “Taylor’s choice not to fill that space reveals a great deal about her attitude towards Sally.”
“I know, and it saddens me. You’ve probably noticed that we haven’t hung any of Sally’s work in the condo. Three of the paintings are on loan to that travelling retrospective, but the rest are in storage. It’s museum-calibre storage, but it’s still storage. Sally would hate that no one’s seeing her work.”
“I’d be more than happy to sell any or all of Sally’s paintings for you,” Darrell said.
“Most of them are Taylor’s,” I said. “They were part of Sally’s estate. I keep hoping Taylor will want to have them around her some day.”
“She will,” Darrell said. “I don’t know much about kids, but I do know that Taylor is a person who cares about art and respects the people who make it. At some level, she already knows that it’s wrong to allow serious art to be locked away in a vault. She’ll come around.” He checked his watch. “Now you and I better get to that meeting. Last night at least six people who had art in the show offered their services as mentors when R-H is up and running, and I’m keen to share the news.”
Margot was dressed casually in jeans and a lemon cowlneck sweater. As a trial lawyer, Margot’s killer red fingernails had been her signature. That morning as she let us into the condo, she held out her hands to me. The daggers were gone. Her nails were close-clipped and without polish.
“More motherly?” she asked.
“The f
irst time you change a three-alarm diaper, you’ll realize that short nails are the only option,” I said.
Margot laughed. “Zack says seeing me without my killer nails is like seeing Samson after his haircut.”
“So Zack’s already here.”
“He is, and he brought Brock Poitras with him.”
“What’s he like?” I said.
“In a word – perfect,” Margot said. “And Brock hasn’t arrived a moment too soon.” She lowered her voice. “Zack filled me in on the situation between Vince and Lauren. It’s heartbreaking.”
“Did Zack have any luck tracking down Vince?”
“No, and he’s worried. So am I. The Treadgolds have been good friends to Racette-Hunter. Lauren’s inside. Her face is a mess, but she came anyway. I don’t know why. All she has to do is deliver a report, and I could have done that for her.”
“Maybe she wants to make certain that people see what Vince did to her,” I said.
“But we’re the only ones who know it was Vince,” Margot said. “I overheard Lauren telling someone she’d slipped at the gym.”
“Maybe she’s leaving the door open for a reconciliation,” I said. “Is Riel here?”
Margot rolled her eyes. “Yes, and I wish he wasn’t. He looks worse than he did the day of the photo shoot. When I asked how he was doing, he snapped at me.” She stepped aside. “Come in. See for yourself.”
For a moment I stood in the doorway of Margot’s sun-splashed living room, taking in the scene. The mood was welcoming. Jasmina Terzic, the housekeeper who effortlessly took care of Margot’s household and ours, had set out a table with carafes of tea and coffee, bottles of juice and water, and baskets of fresh fruit and muffins. Riel was sitting alone in the corner. I started towards him, but Ernest Beauvais beat me to it. When Ernest moved a chair close to Riel and murmured something that made Riel chuckle, I relaxed and went over to introduce myself to the one person in the room I hadn’t met.
Brock Poitras towered over me. He had a black brush cut, tawny skin, and a smile that came slowly but was worth waiting for. His first words to me were praise for my older daughter, so of course I liked him immediately.
“Elder Beauvais tells me you’re Mieka Kilbourn’s mother,” he said. “She’s remarkable.”
“I agree,” I said. “How did you and Mieka come to know each other?”
“As part of Blackwell’s initiative to show that it has a heart, the company sent me to deliver a cheque to your daughter’s new play centre.”
“Actually, April’s Place is a community play centre, but Mieka and her friend Lisa Wallace are getting it off the ground.”
“Mieka showed me around,” Brock said. “I was impressed.”
“The grand opening’s at noon on November 30. Why don’t you come? There’ll be bannock and venison stew.”
“Then I’m there.” Brock pulled out his smartphone and made a note of the event. “Bannock and venison stew are in short supply at Blackwell,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong. Blackwell is a good place to work, and James Loftus is a great boss, but I’ve wanted to do something in the community for a long time.”
“Now’s your chance,” I said.
“And I don’t want to blow it,” Brock said. “I don’t want to be the guy who’s just there for the photo op. Mieka says you and Zack have been involved with Racette-Hunter from the beginning. If you have any ideas about how I can contribute, bring them on.”
I laughed. “Well, you asked for it. Last night Zack and I were talking about getting people in North Central more involved in civic politics. Is that something you might be interested in?”
Brock frowned. “I’m not very political.”
“Electile dysfunction,” I said. “There’s a lot of that going around. Zack didn’t vote in the last election. He was complaining last night about the mayor, and I told him that we get the government we deserve.”
“Ouch,” Brock said. “Time to turn the corner?”
“I think so. The next civic election is eleven months away,” I said. “We could get a solid ground operation going by then.”
“I’m a rookie,” Brock said. “I’ll need a playbook.”
“I’ve spent years working in electoral politics,” I said. “We can work on a playbook together.”
Brock grinned. “Okay,” he said. “I’m in.”
I touched his arm. “And I’m grateful,” I said.
Ernest began the meeting with the same prayer he used at the start of all our meetings: “Great Spirit – Grant us strength and dignity to walk a new trail.”
Margot gave a brief overview of the subjects the meeting would deal with. Then she beckoned Brock to join her. “I have some very good news,” she said.
Margot’s introduction of Brock was fulsome. After she announced that Brock would be working with them on a six-month secondment, he rose to offer a brief and gracious acknowledgement of his welcome. Riel did not join in the applause that greeted Brock’s words.
The individual reports from the various teams were all positive. The auction had surpassed expectations – financially and in terms of positive publicity and patron satisfaction. The on-site Christmas photo shoot had been a success and holiday cards would be mailed out to Racette-Hunter’s donors and potential donors the first week in December. The construction of the centre was ahead of schedule, and if all the variables continued to break our way, a Labour Day opening was definitely on track.
As the reports were delivered my focus kept shifting to Lauren. She could easily have come up with an excuse to stay away from the meeting, but not only had she come, she’d positioned herself next to Zack, who was the meeting’s chair. Lauren was refusing to be a victim. With a model’s instinct, she had chosen a look that would merit attention: a Mondrian print tunic top, black leggings, and tall black boots. Her makeup was careful and her hair was sleek. She had again covered her injured eye with the rakish black leather eye patch, and when she delivered her report on fundraising and development, she held her head high, proud of her success.
After the last report was delivered, Ernest stood to offer a closing prayer. But before he could begin, Riel cut him off. “I have a question for our new committee member, Brock,” Riel said. “Exactly what is your function at Racette-Hunter, bro?”
There was no mistaking the antagonism in Riel’s voice. Brock was cool. “Joanne and I talked about that before the meeting. We thought that I might approach people in North Central and talk about how they can organize to elect a mayor and councillors who will represent their interests.”
“So you’d be doing community liaison work,” Riel said, and his voice was tight with anger.
“Something like that,” Brock said. “Elder Beauvais is about to say the closing prayer. Why don’t we listen, and then you and I can go someplace for coffee and talk?”
It was an olive branch, but Riel didn’t take it. He jumped to his feet. “There’s nothing to talk about, bro. I may not have an M.B.A., but I’m smart enough to know when I’m being pushed aside.”
Riel stormed out of the room, kicking at the leg of the table on his way, startling everyone. I stood, but Ernest Beauvais put his hand on my arm. “Give him a chance to let what he’s doing sink in,” he said softly. Then Ernest bowed his head and began the prayer.
As we left Margot’s, my thoughts were with Riel, but Lauren was waiting outside the door and she, too, had a problem. “Have you heard from Vince, Zack?”
Zack shook his head. “Let’s go to our place,” he said. “We shouldn’t be talking about this out here.”
Lauren and I sat on the stools at the butcher-block table and Zack pulled his wheelchair up beside her. She removed the patch from her eye. “I thought this thing might make it easier for people to deal with me, but it’s so irritating,” she said. Zack examined her eye closely. The black and blue bruising appeared to have spread, and the eye itself was bloodshot. “Have you seen a doctor about that?” Zack asked.
Lauren’s l
augh was hollow. “Just Vince,” she said. “Zack, I had no idea that BlueBoy21 was a painting of Julian. You have to believe me. Darrell and Kaye handled the art. I saw the names of the artists and the descriptions of their pieces, but except for the star blanket we used in the advertising, I never saw the pieces.”
“So Julian was the man that Vince found you with,” Zack said.
Lauren’s nod was almost imperceptible.
Zack’s tone was firm but not condemning. “What you and Vince are doing to each other is brutal. Lauren, Vince was drinking last night.”
“He hasn’t had a drink in all the time we’ve been married.”
“Well, now he has,” Zack said.
“Because he recognized the boy in the picture,” she said.
“Yes,” Zack said softly. “Another man might have run away when he recognized Julian, but Vince—”
“Was determined to watch me suffer,” Lauren said.
Zack was keeping his temper under control, but I could see from the pulse in his neck that it was costing him. “You weren’t the only person who suffered last night, Lauren.”
“I’m aware of that,” she said. “I wish I knew what to do next.”
Zack sighed. “That makes two of us. But the first order of business is to find Vince. I tried a few of the hotels he used to stay at when he was drinking but no luck. I also tried the hospital. They were tight-lipped. Were you able to get any information from them?”
“I didn’t try,” Lauren said. “I was embarrassed to ask strangers about my husband.”
“You’re going to have to get past that,” Zack said curtly. “Finding Vince is the priority.”
Lauren removed her cell from her yellow leather over-the-shoulder bag. In less than a minute, we knew that the news was not good. Vince had called the hospital saying he had urgent family business and requesting that his surgeries for the next week be reassigned or rescheduled.
