The Gifted

by Gail Bowen

  “He’s never done that,” Lauren said. “No matter what happened, Vince’s patients always came first.”

  “We have to find him,” Zack said. “Before Vince joined AA, there were many weekends when all he did was drink. He can’t go that route again. There’s a private detective agency the firm uses – they’re good and they’re discreet. I’ll call them, but I’ll need the licence number of Vince’s Mercedes.”

  “Vince wasn’t driving his car when he left the hotel,” Lauren said. “He was driving my SUV. He told the parking valet that the painting wouldn’t fit in the Mercedes and that he needed the extra room.” Lauren wrote down the description and the licence number of her Land Rover and handed it to Zack. “This isn’t much to go on,” she said.

  “We may not need it,” Zack said. “It’s entirely possible that Vince will call.”

  Lauren stood. “Don’t hold your breath waiting for the phone to ring,” she said. At which point, of course, our landline rang.

  I answered. It was Darrell Bell. He was a man of uncommon equanimity, but he sounded agitated. “Jo, there’s a situation with the painting Vince Treadgold purchased last night.”

  “What kind of situation?” I asked.

  Darrell’s laugh was short. “This is going to sound like something from a bad movie, but I just got a phone call from a man who says he has BlueBoy21 – more accurately, he said that he has the painting that was in the paper this morning. The one that’s worth $25,000.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Still in your building’s parking garage.”

  “Can you come up here? Lauren and Zack and I are at our place.”

  “I’ll be right there,” he said.

  “So what’s happening?” Zack asked.

  “Darrell had a call from a man who says he has BlueBoy21.”

  Lauren’s voice was even. “What happened to Vince?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  When Darrell arrived and joined us at the table, Zack pushed his chair back so he could see the three of us. “I guess the first question is how the man on the phone knew to call you,” Zack said.

  “No mystery there,” Darrell said. “He called the Racette-Hunter office and said he needed to get in touch with somebody about the art auction. They gave him my number.”

  “So who are we dealing with?” Zack said.

  “My guess is it’s a young guy trying to sound tough. He says if we want to see the painting again, we should call him back and arrange for a meeting place. He also says to bring cash.”

  “And, let me guess,” Zack said, “if we involve the police, all bets are off.”

  Darrell raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve seen the movie, too.”

  “Yep,” Zack said. “Give me the tough guy’s number. I’ll arrange the meeting, but, Darrell, I’d like you to come with me to make sure the painting hasn’t been damaged.”

  Lauren remained composed. “Did this man say how he came to have the painting?”

  Darrel shook his head. “All he said was that BlueBoy21 was in his possession.”

  “We’ll know more soon,” Zack said.

  He dialled the number Darrell had given him and introduced himself, saying that he was a lawyer and that, as long as no major laws had been broken, he was ready to do business.

  When he hung up, Zack gave us the broad strokes. “The guy says he was walking past the parking lot of the Sears discount store a little after midnight last night. He noticed that the hatch of an SUV in the lot was open, so he went over to investigate. He spotted the crate, figured it contained a flat-screen TV, and took it home so it would be ‘out of harm’s way.’ Imagine his dismay when the flat-screen TV turned out to be ‘a fucking painting.’ ”

  “He must have been delighted when he picked up the morning paper and discovered what the painting was worth,” I said.

  “So the SUV and the painting were in the parking lot,” Lauren said. “Where is Vince?”

  Zack rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “There must have been an accident,” Lauren said.

  “If there was an accident, Vince walked away from it,” Zack said. “You would have heard something by now if he’d been injured. And the guy didn’t say anything about the SUV being damaged. I don’t want to involve the police, but it’s your call, Lauren.”

  Lauren shook her head vehemently. “No police yet,” she said. “Let’s keep this private.”

  Zack was sanguine about the meeting in the parking lot. As he pointed out, it was daylight and the Sears discount store was a busy place. I volunteered to go along with Lauren and drive one of the Treadgold cars back. I tried to make my suggestion sound matter-of-fact, but a man in a wheelchair is an easy target and if something went wrong I wanted to be with Zack.

  Nothing did. The exchange of cash for the painting was smooth. As Darrell had deduced, the Good Samaritan was young – probably late teens or early twenties – a thin, jumpy Caucasian boy. Beneath his lower lip was the small triangle of facial hair my students referred to as a womb broom. After Darrell had examined BlueBoy21 and pronounced it unharmed, Zack handed over the second half of the payment. The Good Samaritan couldn’t sprint away fast enough.

  Darrell slid BlueBoy21 into the back of the Land Rover. Lauren clearly didn’t want to let the painting out of her sight, so I agreed to drive the Mercedes back to her home on Albert Street, where Zack would in turn pick me up.

  Zack stopped Lauren before she climbed into the driver’s seat. “I noticed that the right headlight of your car is broken.”

  Lauren seemed distracted. “I’ll call and make an appointment when I get home.”

  “Better sooner than later,” Zack said.

  Lauren’s voice was frosty. “I said I’d call.”

  “Good,” Zack said. “No use letting a small problem become a big problem.”

  During Zack and Lauren’s exchange, Darrell’s cell rang. His call was short, and when he broke the connection, his grin was puckish. “Here’s where it’s fun to be an art dealer. That call was from the guy who bid against you last night. He wants to buy Two Painters. Name your price.”

  “It’s not for sale,” Zack said. “Come on, Darrell. You know that.”

  “I do,” Darrell agreed. “And I told my potential client you’d never sell, but he insisted that I try.”

  “And you tried,” Zack said. “Look, I don’t want to be churlish. Does your client live here in the city?”

  “No, in Calgary.”

  “An hour’s flight from here. Tell him to hop a plane, come to our place, have a drink, and look at the painting. We’ll even introduce him to the artist.”

  “I’ll pass that along,” Darrell said. He jammed his hands in his jacket pockets. “Zack, I know I’m skating on thin ice here, but you know the Treadgolds. What do you think is going to happen to BlueBoy21?”

  “Beats me,” Zack said.

  Darrell’s expression was cool and amused. “Well, Taylor’s professional career is certainly off to a dramatic start.”

  “It is,” I said. “Especially considering that she won’t even be fifteen till next week.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  Getting the Racette-Hunter project underway demanded time and energy from everyone involved. The art auction had been our major fundraiser, and I had anticipated that after it was over, I’d be able to relax: shop for some fun birthday gifts for Taylor, catch up on my reading, work with Brock on a political playbook for North Central, and sit in front of the fireplace with Zack enjoying life.

  However, as Robbie Burns famously noted, “The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men gang aft a’gley.” Our weekend was miserable. There was no word from Vince. The private investigators discovered that Vince had flown north to Prince Albert on a commercial flight and then seemingly vanished. November is white-tailed deer season in our province and Vince was a hunter. Zack thought that Vince might have rented a private plane and gone to a hunting lodge. Every time
I looked at the deepening of Zack’s worry lines, I knew that he wasn’t buying his own theory, and I was angry. Vince knew that people would be concerned about him. If he was sober, it was unconscionable that he hadn’t let someone know he was safe. The only logical conclusion was that wherever he was, Vince was drinking.

  The news about Riel was equally grim. When I told Mieka about Riel’s anger at the meeting, she’d immediately tried to get in touch with him. She’d left messages and texted, but Riel hadn’t responded, and Mieka was anxious.

  Monday just after Taylor left for school, my cell rang. Zack and I were still at the breakfast table. It was Celeste Treadgold asking if I could please have lunch with her. It was a simple request, but I could hear the anguish in her voice. It occurred to me that she would have been old enough to remember Vince’s drinking and disappearances. The possibility that the cycle had begun again clearly terrified her. We agreed to meet at noon at Orange, a Japanese–Korean fusion restaurant in the Cathedral District. I’d just hung up when Zack’s phone rang. He listened for a moment and mouthed Vince’s name.

  I waited until the call ended. “Is Vince all right?” I said.

  “He’s fine. As I suspected, he went up north to hunt.”

  I felt my gorge rise. “Why didn’t he call?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just relieved that he’s okay. Jo, I know you’re angry that Vince didn’t get in touch with anyone, but he’s been through hell. Please, cut him a little slack.”

  “When is he coming home?”

  “Not till next week.”

  “I overheard you asking Vince about what he did after the auction.”

  “I did, and in a nutshell, after the auction, Vince got scared sober. When he left the hotel, he thought he was capable of driving. Within five minutes, he realized he wasn’t. He pulled over, parked, then walked to the Senator – that dive where we have our poker games – and registered for the night. The next morning he made arrangements to fly up north.”

  “But you must have checked at the Senator.”

  “That was first place I went, but Vince was already gone by the time I got there. There was a new guy on the front desk. He didn’t know me, and the Senator’s staff are known for never volunteering information about their guests. Anyway, end of story.”

  “Not quite,” I said. “What about the smashed headlight?”

  “Vince doesn’t remember hitting anything,” Zack said. “He doesn’t have the keys to the SUV, so it’s a safe assumption he left them in the vehicle.”

  “And somebody just happened by, took the SUV for a spin, hit something with sufficient force to knock out the headlight, then dumped the vehicle off in the Sears parking lot?”

  “That appears to be the case,” Zack said amiably.

  “End of discussion?” I said.

  “Nothing more to discuss,” Zack said.

  “Then we might as well move along,” I said. “Does Lauren know that Vince is okay?”

  “No. Vince called the hospital and after he talked to me he was going to call Celeste. But he doesn’t want to talk to Lauren.”

  “That’s understandable,” I said, “but Lauren is Vince’s wife. She has a right to know that he’s safe, especially since he plans to stay up north for a week.”

  “Point taken,” Zack said. He picked up his cell, hit speed-dial, and left a message for Lauren that was curt but not unfriendly. Then he turned to me. “Good enough?”

  “Good enough,” I said, but I was still uneasy. “This isn’t over, is it?”

  “No,” Zack said. “I’m sure you noticed that when I asked Lauren if we should contact the authorities, she said, ‘No police yet.’ ”

  “I noticed,” I said. “Do you think calling the police is Lauren’s trump card to get what she wants from Vince?”

  “That’s exactly what I think,” Zack said. “I don’t know what Lauren wants, but whatever it is, I don’t like the game she’s playing.”

  Zack slid his smartphone into his pocket. “Vince is a helluva poker player,” he said.

  “Where did that come from?” I said.

  “Remember that line from the old Kenny Rogers’s song about gamblers having to know when to hold ’em and know when to fold ’em? Vince has always had a sixth sense about knowing when it’s time to walk away from the table.”

  “And you think it’s time for Vince to walk away from Lauren?”

  “No,” he said. “In my opinion, it’s time for Vince to run.”

  The Cathedral area of our city is a fine place to wander on a lazy afternoon. Within a six-block area, you can find pickerel caught that morning in Lac La Ronge, handcrafted silver jewellery, maternity leggings for a groovy mama, a dazzling blue dendrobium orchid, and the funkiest sandals on the planet. You can also eat at one of a half-dozen quiet restaurants with adventurous menus and servers who neither hover nor hurry.

  Celeste had reserved a window table, and I was able to watch as she got out of her car, hesitated, lit a cigarette, sucked deeply, then lowered her head against the wind and walked towards the restaurant. As she faced the entrance, Celeste took a long final drag before she threw the cigarette to the sidewalk and ground it out with the toe of her boot.

  She was wearing jeans, a pea jacket, one of the crimson Racette-Hunter scarves, and a black toque with ear flaps. When she spotted me, she gave a little wave and came over to the table. “I’m glad you could make it,” she said.

  She slid into her seat, removed her jacket, and whipped off her toque. “Since my father went missing I’ve been crazy,” she said. “Now that he’s safe, I’m still crazy. I’m relieved, but I’m angry at him. What kind of person am I to react that way?”

  “A normal person,” I said. “Every so often when my kids were little, one of them would get lost. I’d be frantic – imagining the worst. Then I’d find them and all the while I was hugging and reassuring them, I’d be fuming because they’d frightened me so much.”

  Celeste ran her fingers through her wavy butterscotch-coloured hair. “That happened to my mother and me,” she said softly. “I wandered off in a department store and when she found me she was laughing and crying at the same time. I’d never seen anyone do that. She covered my face with kisses, but all the time she was kissing me she was whispering, ‘Ne me refais plus ça, chérie. Ne me brise pas le coeur.’ ”

  “You and your mother spoke French to each other,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “We always spoke French. It was like a secret language. A secret language, now lost.”

  There were no words to lessen Celeste’s sorrow, and I was relieved when the server arrived with water and the wine list. We both ordered a glass of Argentinian Malbec.

  Celeste picked up the menu. “I’ve never eaten here,” she said. “What do you recommend?”

  “Well, Taylor likes the okanomi yaki and the tako yaki.”

  Celeste skimmed the menu and made a face. “Deep-fried squid with cabbage pancakes and deep-fried octopus with dumpling balls? I don’t think so. What do you and Zack like?

  “We usually order dishes that we can split: gyoza, and yakitori chicken and kushiyaki.”

  Celeste read out: “Dumplings, chicken, and vegetables on skewers and prawns and scallops on skewers. Sounds good to me.”

  The server came with the wine, and we ordered our meal. Celeste took a sip of wine. “This is very nice,” she said. “The wine, but also being able to talk with somebody I feel I can trust. Joanne, I’ve done something.”

  I raised my hand in a Halt sign. “Celeste, is this something you should be talking to Zack about?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “If it comes to that, I will talk to him, but right now I just need to get the words out. I’m scared – for my father but also for me. I can’t lose him again, Joanne. I know why he started drinking the night of the art auction. He says he’s sober now, and I believe him, but it wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge. If he starts drinking again, he could lose everything – his medi
cal licence, his reputation, his career – everything he’s worked so hard for.”

  “Zack’s concerned about that, too,” I said.

  “Concern isn’t enough,” Celeste said. “My father needs to get Lauren out of his life.”

  Vince’s angry account of his wife’s passion for her young lover was still sharp in my mind. “Lauren may decide to leave on her own,” I said.

  “Not until she gets what she wants,” Celeste said grimly.

  “You seem very certain about Lauren’s plans,” I said. “Has she confided in you?”

  Celeste whooped. “My God, Joanne. You must live in a parallel universe. Lauren and I do not confide in each other. We barely speak. My information comes from Julian.”

  “Julian?” I said. “I am living in a parallel universe. Lauren mentioned once that you’d introduced her to Julian. I assumed it was just one of those casual social things.”

  Celeste’s lips curled with amusement. “Nothing about Lauren and me is ‘casual,’ ” she said. “Julian and I work together at Diego’s. Lauren was in for dinner one night with friends. I was her server. She spotted Julian serving at another table and she asked me to introduce her. Lauren said she wanted to meet some of my friends, and idiot that I am, I was flattered, so I called Julian over and introduced them.” Celeste stared out the window at the mural painted on the side of the supermarket across the street. “As they say, the rest is history.”

  “Julian and Lauren became lovers that night?”

  “Diego’s has the perfect setup for assignations,” Celeste said. “The restaurant is in a boutique hotel – nothing simpler for a patron to do than reserve a room while she’s paying her bill.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  Celeste’s fingers thrummed the table and she gazed around the restaurant. “I don’t know. Maybe a month ago.”

  “You never told your father?”

  “No. My father knows how I feel about Lauren. I didn’t want him to think I was being vindictive or – worse – that I was lying.”