What's Left Behind

by Gail Bowen

  The creases that bracketed Zack’s mouth like parentheses had deepened. These were not easy days for him. But the rain had stopped, the unmistakable scent of a street vendor’s tube steaks was in the air, and Victoria Park was close.

  I reached down and massaged Zack’s neck. “I’m in the mood for a celebration in a bun. Are you up for that?”

  Zack’s shoulders relaxed. “Tube steaks and you are my two unslakeable lusts.”

  Victoria Park was in full summer mode. Lovers embraced on benches. Drunks weaved along the paths. Pigeons paid their respects to the statue of Sir John A. Macdonald. Daycare kids clambered over the guaranteed child-friendly, eco-friendly play structures while their minders checked their messages. Zack and I had just loaded up our hot dogs and found a bench in the sun when my cell rang. It was Peter calling from La Ronge.

  He was on edge. “Mum, Maisie is determined to spend the night at the farm. I’m afraid it’ll be a circus.”

  “You’re right to be concerned,” I said. “When we were out there yesterday, it was chaotic, but Bobby Stevens is in seclusion at the Stevens’s farm, George Sawchuk has organized the neighbours to handle the chores, and we brought Esme back with us.”

  Peter laughed softly. “You and dogs,” he said. “Is everybody getting along?”

  “We’re doing fine,” I said. “Pantera’s only interest is Zack, and Esme seems to have taken a shine to me. But see for yourselves. Why don’t you and Maisie spend the night with us? She shouldn’t have to deal with seeing the home she grew up in turned into a crime scene.”

  “Let me ask her.”

  It took a while, but when Peter came back the decision had been made. He and Maisie would spend the night with us and we’d all deal with what had to be dealt with tomorrow morning.

  By the time I hung up, my appetite for a street vendor tube steak with all the condiments was robust. Zack and I turned our attention to munching and watching the world go by. We had twenty minutes of glorious mindlessness before our idyll was cut short.

  Zack’s phone rang just as we were wiping the mustard off our faces and fingers. It was the RCMP. After he hung up, Zack passed along the news. Lee’s body would not be released until next Tuesday, but despite the nakedness from the waist down, there was no evidence of sexual assault.

  “Do you think someone was trying to implicate Simon?” I said.

  “Could be. Could be someone’s sick idea of a joke.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  Zack’s voice was harsh with contempt. “In that video of her call to arms, Quinn Donnelly said that Lee used her body to get what she wanted,” he said. “Maybe someone wanted the whore image to stick.”

  That afternoon, when Peter and Maisie came through the doors into the arrivals lounge, it was impossible to believe they were the same glowing couple who had driven off in Pete’s truck to begin their new life together. The first time I met Maisie, she’d come straight from lacrosse; she strode across the room, curls damp from the shower, hand extended, lip split but still smiling. She always radiated confidence and optimism, but that night in the harsh light of the arrivals room, she looked grey and hollowed out by grief. Peter had his arm around her shoulders and she was leaning into him as if she found standing difficult.

  Zack and I spoke in low tones. “My God, what do we do?” he asked.

  “Just be there, I guess.”

  He took my hand. “We can do that,” he said.

  Margot said Maisie was tough, and she was. During the next few days there were many spirit-crushing moments, but, with one exception, Maisie remained dry-eyed and resolute. She faltered only when she walked into our condo and saw Esme. The sight of Lee’s dog hit Maisie like a physical blow. She crumpled and wept. Esme went to her and Maisie clung to her sister’s dog until the tears stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that I’ve never seen Esme without Lee.” Peter handed his wife a tissue, and she mopped her eyes and blew her nose. “I guess there’s a lot I’m going to have to get used to,” she said. Then she sat down at the butcher-block table, took a deep breath, and said, “Tell me everything.”

  It was an excruciating evening. Angus’s account of the scene that met him when he walked into the barn was factual and he managed to keep his voice emotionless, but there was no way to blunt the horror of what had happened. When Angus said the police believed that the first shot would have killed Lee instantly and that she would not have suffered, Maisie was bleak. “There’s no way the police could know that. Lee would have seen the person holding the gun. Even if her awareness only lasted a split second, she would have died with the image of her murderer in her eyes.” Maisie steeled herself. “So whose image was it? Do the police have a theory?”

  “They’ve questioned Simon Weber,” I said.

  “Asia Libke is representing him,” Zack said. “At Asia’s request, the police put Simon in the psych ward overnight Monday.”

  “Where is he now?” Maisie asked.

  “I don’t know,” Zack said.

  “Asia’s sharp,” Maisie said. “At this moment, her client is undoubtedly walking among us. But I guess he did what he wanted to do.”

  “I don’t believe Simon killed Lee,” I said.

  Maisie’s eyes widened. “On what evidence?”

  “None that would stand up in court,” Angus said. “But if you had seen Simon’s face when the police were questioning him, you’d believe he was innocent too.”

  “Instinct isn’t enough,” Maisie said tightly.

  “Simon’s version of what happened is plausible,” Angus said. “He says Lee texted him around three asking him to come out to the farm because she was in the barn and she was hurt.”

  Maisie’s tone was withering. “So she texted the man against whom she had a restraining order, asking him for help.”

  “I know what he said doesn’t make sense,” Angus said. “But if he did get a text from Lee’s phone, he wouldn’t think for a moment that it was a trick. When it came to Lee, Simon wasn’t rational. All he wanted was to get Lee back. His obsession with Lee was no secret. And Simon swears he’s innocent. He says that when he got to the barn Lee and her dog were already dead. The RCMP say Lee wasn’t sexually assaulted – that might point to someone else.”

  “Who?” Maisie asked.

  “We don’t know,” I said. “The police are following every lead, but there’s so much craziness out there. First the birds and then …”

  Maisie’s hand flew to her throat. “What about the birds?”

  “Oh God. Nobody told you,” Angus said. “After the wedding Lee stayed overnight at Lawyers’ Bay. When she went home the next morning, someone had killed all the heritage birds.”

  Peter took his wife’s arm. “How were the birds killed?”

  “They were poisoned,” Angus said.

  Maisie closed her eyes against the image. “And Lee was alone when she had to face that,” Maisie said

  “She wasn’t alone,” Angus said. “Bobby and I came to the farm as soon as we heard what had happened. I stayed overnight. Bobby wanted to, but we all agreed that if Simon showed up, Bobby would be a raised red flag, and I’d be someone Simon could talk to. I had to go into the office the next morning, but I promised Lee I’d cut out early and come back and make dinner.”

  “And when you came back, Lee was dead.” Maisie leaned into Peter. “I’ve had enough for one day,” she said.

  “We all have,” Peter said. And then hand in hand they walked down the hall to the guest bedroom.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Maisie had trouble sleeping. Peter said she finally dropped off around three, and it was close to ten when she came into the kitchen for breakfast. She’d showered, anchored her still-wet curls into a ponytail, and dressed for the day in blue jeans, a crisp white shirt, and the white and lime-green Cloudracer running shoes Zack and I had given her for her birthday last year.

  Forewarned is forearmed, and I was grateful that Peter and I h
ad time to deal with reminders of the outside world before Maisie had to face it. For the second day running, the front page of our local paper featured pictures of Lee. Today’s had one of her kneeling to feed her birds, and another of her body being loaded into an ambulance. Peter tossed the newspaper in the recycle bin within seconds of its delivery. Other problems were not so easily solved.

  Zack called twenty minutes after he got to City Hall, and he was clearly nettled. “It’s bizarro mondo out there,” he said. “I had to wheel through a gauntlet of very angry people to get into the building.”

  “What was their message?”

  “Take your pick,” Zack said. “There were signs calling our opponents land rapists, blood suckers, and murderers. There were signs calling Lee a martyr. And there were pictures of Lee that had the word whore written in dripping red paint across her face.”

  “That line has Slater’s fingerprints all over it, and it makes my stomach heave,” I said. “Did you talk to the protestors?”

  “Yeah, I gave them my standard message about lowering our voices and listening, but they were screaming so loud they didn’t hear me.”

  “Not the sunniest way to start the day.”

  “No, and when I got to my office Stefani Laustig from communications greeted me with tapes from the local morning news shows. Apparently there was a vigil at the Brokenshire farm last night. The media were there, and the organizers went the whole nine yards: candles, flowers, teddy bears, guitars, and letters to Lee telling her they loved her and they’d carry on her work.”

  “That sounds innocent enough,” I said.

  “Some of the mourners were carrying signs saying ‘An Eye for an Eye.’ ”

  “Not so innocent,” I said. “So that’s what Maisie, Pete, and I are going to be walking into.”

  “No. According to Stefani, when the vigil was over, two men came out of Lee’s house and sent everyone packing.”

  “Probably George with a neighbour,” I said.

  “Whoever they are, they’re still there this morning and other neighbours are coming to help, so it’s likely safe to go out to the farm.”

  “Zack, how are you going to handle this?”

  “Play it as it lays, I guess. The situation is explosive. Stef says media from outside the city smell a red-meat story and they’re on their way. Of course, their presence will be catnip for the crazies. But we’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it. Gotta go. I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I said. “I’ll call you from the farm.”

  Maisie ate a healthy breakfast. The night before, she’d managed only a cup of weak tea, crackers, and a few spoonsful of chicken soup, but Thursday morning she cleaned her plate and when she carried it to the sink to rinse, her colour was good. Peter had already packed up their overnight things, so when Angus arrived with Pete’s truck, we were ready. Angus was headed for work. Maisie and Peter were going to the farm in the truck. Esme was still glued to me, so she and I were driving out in our station wagon.

  I was apprehensive but hopeful. The sun was shining and the air was fresh with the promise of early summer. As I drove past trees turning from blossom to fruit, and fields pale green with sprouting crop, I felt a stirring of optimism. Perhaps we would find a way through this after all.

  As soon as I approached the Brokenshire farm, I knew Zack had been overly positive about the situation there. The entrance to the driveway had been blocked off with pylons and police tape, but there were several cars parked on the shoulder of the highway, and I spotted three media vans. I angled around towards Esme. “What fresh hell is this?” I said. She rewarded the Dorothy Parker line with a neck nuzzle.

  Peter’s truck was ahead of me. As soon as he pulled his vehicle up to the driveway, George ran over to the window on the driver’s side. He talked to Peter and Maisie for a few minutes, then he cleared a path through the pylons and police tape and waved our vehicles through. As soon as we cleared the entrance, George replaced the pylons and the tape and resumed his watch.

  I parked and joined my son and daughter-in-law. “So what’s going on?” I said.

  “George told us that when he came over last night to do chores, the vigil people and the media were here,” Peter said. “The police had sealed off the barn, but sightseers were taking pictures of the inside of the house through the windows and tromping through the garden and the orchards. Apparently it was quite a show.

  “George set up a schedule with the neighbours so there’ll be people patrolling the driveway until the sightseers find another diversion,” Maisie said. “It’s good to be part of this community. If Pete and I had to deal with this on our own, I would spontaneously combust.”

  Peter squeezed her shoulder. “Let’s go inside.”

  Maisie squared her shoulders. “Not yet,” she said. “I need to go the barn – I might as well get that over with.”

  I was unsure about how Esme would react to being back on the farm, so before we got out of the car I had clipped on her leash. When Maisie and Peter turned towards the barn, Esme whined and strained to go with them. “No,” I said. “You’re staying with me.” As I turned towards the house, Esme pulled hard and began to keen. I squatted beside her. “It’s over,” I said. “We’re going to be okay. We just have to hang in there for a while.”

  The day Taylor had shot her video at the farm we’d eaten in the farmhouse kitchen. It had a wood stove, but Lee used it only in the winter, so on that spring day just a couple of weeks ago, she had served lemonade cooled in a venerable round-shouldered fridge, wild rice bread, and Lunenburg beans baked in the oven of an Admiral stove that had seen decades of service.

  The lives of the sisters who had grown up on the Brokenshire farm had been ripped asunder, but the house Esme and I walked into that Wednesday morning was still the house where the Crawford twins had practised piano, shelled peas, played hide-and-seek, worked on homework, and dreamed dreams.

  There was a vase of red and yellow tulips on the chrome kitchen table where Lee had served us lunch. The realization that, in all likelihood, Lee had picked the tulips for the dinner she and Angus were planning was a fresh blow.

  I put the kettle on and called Zack to fill him in on the situation at the farm.

  He had news too. “It’s insane here,” he said. “There are a dozen issues that need attention, but the protestors outside City Hall are still making noise and we’re getting dozens of calls and emails asking us for further comment on Lee’s death. Milo, Stefani, Norine, and I are huddled in my office trying to get a sense of where the story is going and the effect it’s going to have on the referendum.”

  “Any conclusions?”

  “The networks are picking up the story about the vigil for Lee. The footage is dramatic. All those innocent, candlelit faces, but the anger isn’t far beneath the surface. Someone’s put together a montage of photos of Lee at the farm and uploaded the video on YouTube. They used that old Louis Armstrong song ‘What a Wonderful World’ as background music. People are sharing and retweeting the link. Milo says Lancaster is already striking back.”

  “Against who?”

  “Against Lee,” Zack said. “The rumour that Lee was a slut who used her body to get she wanted is making the rounds. And you know where that particular piece of garbage started.”

  “With Quinn Donnelly,” I said. “Zack, I know she hated Lee, but Lee’s dead. Why would Quinn feel the need to continue to sling mud at a dead woman?”

  “Because she wants to contradict the image of Lee as a martyred saint. And I’m sure Slater Doyle is right beside Quinn digging away to make certain she doesn’t run out of mud.” Zack paused. “Jo, Milo’s been checking out Lee’s personal life. Simon wasn’t the only man who fell hard for Lee. She wasn’t a nun.”

  “She never claimed to be,” I said. “She was an attractive, intelligent, unattached thirty-three-year-old woman, and men were drawn to her. Zack, there’s something more to this than just sex. It’s the twenty-first century. People a
re no longer shocked to learn that a woman has a robust romantic life.”

  “But you think there is something damaging in Lee’s past.”

  “I do,” I said. “At the CPG meeting, Lee was adamant about not being the public face of the organization. She said she didn’t want her lapses to make CPG vulnerable in the referendum.”

  “And Lee didn’t elaborate on the nature of her lapses,” Zack said. “If Lancaster has dug up something that will stick, it will be useful to know what they’ve got, and when they might use it.” For a beat Zack was silent, and then he said, “Jo, Maisie would know about Lee’s past.”

  “She probably would,” I said. “But right now Maisie’s in the barn where the sister who was part of her life since before she was born was murdered. I’m not going to ask her.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Zack said. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  Esme had been sitting quietly at my feet while Zack and I talked. Suddenly, she tensed and started barking. A shiny red truck had pulled up in the farm’s driveway. “We have company,” I said. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Be careful,” Zack said.

  “Whoever’s here made it past George,” I said. “This is rural Saskatchewan, and there’s been a death in the family. My guess is that our visitor will be a family friend bringing food.”

  I was right on the money. Bette Stevens was behind the wheel of the red truck, and when she rolled down her window, I saw that there was a casserole, a salad, and a Tupperware container of cookies in the picnic basket on the passenger seat.

  “Maisie and Peter are in the barn,” I said. “I’ll get them. I was just about to make tea.”

  “Another time,” Bette said. At the wedding, I’d been struck by Bette’s vigorous health. Lee told me that she had been widowed young and she’d run the farm herself for many years. She had been a striking figure that afternoon. Her complexion glowed with the vitality of a woman accustomed to outdoor physical labour, and her bright blue eyes were clear. Today, she hid her eyes behind sunglasses and she picked up the basket slowly. I could feel the heaviness of her grief.