What's Left Behind

by Gail Bowen

  “I love it,” I said. “It’s exactly right. Factual. Evocative and powerful. When do the ads start running?”

  Margot smiled mischievously. “Tonight.” She looked down at her son. “Okay, bud. Time to close the diner.” As Margot pulled her shirt back over her breast, Kai clouded up. “Don’t look so worried,” she said. “We open again in two hours.” She handed Kai to me. “Can you hold him while I get the clothes?” She knelt beside her daughter and examined the block towers Lexi had erected. “Impressive,” she said. “Now why don’t you take a break and help me get dolly?” Lexi beamed and ran down the hall. Within seconds, she and Margot came back wheeling an industrial dolly that held three large cartons.

  “You’re always so organized,” I said.

  “I didn’t want you lugging those boxes downstairs. After you’ve loaded the clothes into your car, put dolly on the elevator and send her back up. I use that thing all the time.” Lexi gave me an orange smile. “Dolly,” she said.

  “Right,” Margot said. “Dolly – Mummy’s best friend after you and your brothers.”

  I was in luck. When I pulled up to the delivery door at the back of our condo, a FedEx truck was behind me and the driver helped me load the clothing into my car. He even took the dolly back and sent it up on the elevator. Margot wasn’t the only one with all the moves.

  I called Maisie before I left the delivery entrance. She laughed when she heard my voice. “Pete says his family communicates telepathically. I was just about to call you. I’m going through Lee’s things, and I could use some company.”

  “I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” I said. “And I come bearing gifts.”

  When she heard my car pull into the driveway, Maisie came out from behind the house. She was holding a carpenter’s metal tape measure. “I’ve been ‘doin’ some figgerin’,’ as our hired man used to say. As far as I’m concerned, the sooner we get started on the renovations, the better.”

  “So fill me in on your plans for the house.”

  “Follow me and I’ll show you.” Maisie led me around back and handed me her tablet. “Here’s a preliminary sketch of what we want to do. As you know only too well, the kitchen is ancient and really small. Pete and I want to open it up and make a place where we can eat and visit with family and friends, and our kids can visit with their kids. And we want to add a family room down here. There’s no bathroom on the main floor so we’re putting in an accessible bathroom too.”

  “Zack will be glad to hear that,” I said.

  “And he’ll be glad to hear we’re planning to move one of the pianos into the family room so our kids can press the pedals under the piano while their grandfather plays.”

  “Zack will love that,” I said. “He’s crazy about Madeleine and Lena, and we’re both really excited about having more grandkids.”

  “We’re being selfish,” Maisie said. “Peter and I are counting on you and Zack to babysit when we need a wild and wacky weekend alone together.”

  “Anytime,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Surprisingly well,” Maisie said. “I’m at twenty weeks. The babies are very active.” She touched the curve of her belly. “At times, it feels as if there’s a roller derby going on in there.”

  “It’s an amazing time,” I said.

  “It is,” Maisie said. “And I’d love to talk about our plans and the babies all day. But there’s a task we have to deal with and the sooner I get it over with, the better.”

  Few exercises are more painful than disposing of the clothing of a loved one, and I could feel Maisie steeling herself as we walked down the hall towards the stairs that led to Lee’s bedroom. When we came to the office on the main floor, Maisie stopped. “Lee kept meticulous files, and so did Colin.” She went over to a bookcase on the far wall. The shelves of the case were lined with leather daybooks. Maisie’s fingers ran lightly over them. “The black notebooks were Colin’s. Thirty-three of them – one a year from the time he started farming until the day he died. The dark-green ones are Lee’s. She began keeping them when she was fourteen, so there are nineteen of them. Pete says having all that information is going to make starting the breeding program over a lot easier.”

  She bit her lip. “I decided I’d read the notebooks chronologically, but it’s hard. They’re filled with information, but they’re newsy too – about the weather and who came to visit. Colin’s have notes about how Lee and I were doing at school and piano, and he kept track of things the three of us did together – berry-picking, fishing, hunting gophers, trying to catch fireflies, horseback riding, tobogganing, skating. Colin always made a rink for us out back. Lee has these very orderly accounts of her farm ‘projects,’ but every so often she veers off to complain about how I wrecked a sweater of hers I’d borrowed and how my snoring keeps her awake.”

  Maisie turned away from the bookcase. “We had the best lives. I don’t know how I’m going to go on without Lee. I feel as if I’ve been ripped in two.”

  I held her tight. “I’m around. That’s all I can offer you, but whenever you need me, I’ll be here.”

  “Hugging helps,” she said. “Does being your daughter-in-law give me unlimited crying-on-your-shoulder privileges?”

  “Any time, day or night,” I said.

  Maisie’s voice was small. “You may be sorry you offered,” she said.

  The boxes were already lined up in Lee’s bedroom, neatly labelled with a Sharpie. There were three categories: Value Village, Recycle, Garbage. We worked well together. I held up an item of clothing, and Maisie told me which box to put it in. She never hesitated, and we were making good time when we heard someone pull into the driveway. Maisie went to the bedroom window.

  “It’s Bobby,” she said. “He’s been amazing, but we’re both hanging on by a thread.” She gestured to the clothing on the bed. “I want to finish this before I fall apart. Would you mind telling him I’ll call him later?”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  Bobby had taken a cooler out of the back seat of his truck when I opened the door to the porch. “More food,” he said. “There’s a casserole of scalloped potatoes in there and a couple of pies. I’m sure by now Maisie and Peter’s freezer is full, but living in the country means that no neighbour is ever allowed to go hungry.”

  “I like that philosophy,” I said. I took the cooler from him. “Bobby, how are you doing?”

  He shrugged. “Not great, but making myself useful helps.” He spotted the boxes in the back of my station wagon. “Can I give you a hand with those?”

  “You can,” I said. “They’re maternity clothes a friend sent out for Maisie.”

  “One less problem for her to deal with,” Bobby said.

  The concern in his voice disturbed me. “Bobby, you don’t have to answer this, but do you get a sense that Pete and Maisie are in over their heads? Pete’s closing his walk-in clinic, but it’s going to take time to wrap that up, and he wants to get the breeding program started. Maisie is going back to work this week. I worry that it’s going to be too much. Is there somebody in the area we could hire to help them get through the next few months?”

  Bobby ran his hand over his brushcut. “Me,” he said. “I’ve already signed on to take care of the day-to-day business of the farm, help Pete set up the breeding operations, and give Maisie a crash course on farm living. It’s been fifteen years since she lived out here.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” I said.

  Bobby lowered his eyes. “Just self-preservation,” he said. “Our hired man has a teenaged son keen to pick up some spending money this summer, and of course, there’s my mum. With four of us, there’s no problem handling the farm, but there are a lot of hours in the day, and I need to fill them.”

  By the time I rejoined Maisie, she’d already finished with the clothing from the closet and cleaned out all but the two bottom drawers of the bureau. I pulled the drawers out and placed them on the bed. Winter scarves and mitts filled one, and th
e other held mementos – loose photographs, birthday cards, letters.

  Maisie swallowed hard when she saw the contents of the drawer. She picked up a plastic storage box and handed it to me. “Jo, would you mind just putting everything from that drawer in here? Someday I’ll go through it all, but I’m not ready yet.”

  “I understand,” I said, and I began packing the mementos away. At the bottom of the drawer there was a framed portrait of Lee in the convocation robes of a Ph.D.

  I took it out. “I didn’t know Lee had her doctorate,” I said.

  “She didn’t talk about it,” Maisie said, and she began to sort through the mitts and scarves. Clearly, the subject was closed. I placed the picture face down in the storage box. We moved on, but Maisie’s eyes kept returning to the box. Finally, she reached over, took the portrait out, and gazed at it. “Lee was so proud that day. She had offers of tenure-track positions at three universities, but Colin had died two years earlier, so she accepted the offer from University of Saskatchewan. She felt she could work out a schedule that would allow her to teach on campus and still be actively involved in the farm.”

  “What happened?”

  Maisie’s sigh was deep. “A mess. Lee was twenty-seven when she defended her dissertation. She worked very closely with her adviser. He’d been a friend of Colin’s, so he took her under his wing. Unfortunately, he also took her into his bed. Along the way, he gave her an interesting piece of research that he told her he’d done on prairie restoration. It was rudimentary but promising. Lee followed through on it, and it became the heart of her dissertation. It turned out the research was the work of a master’s student the good professor was also supervising. The other student only found out about what had happened after Lee had been awarded her doctorate, and her dissertation was published.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The adviser convinced the other student to back off. She was realistic. She realized what she was up against: a tenured faculty member with a decade of glowing departmental performance reviews, an immensely promising home-grown doctoral candidate, and a dissertation that had taken a master’s student’s preliminary research and used it to formulate sophisticated strategies to conserve and restore high-quality prairie.”

  “So the master’s student went away quietly.”

  “Not quite. She went to Lee and showed her that the research she used in her dissertation was plagiarized. When Lee knew the truth, she confronted her lover. He said he’d lose his job if Lee reported what had happened, and he pointed out that Lee had done the bulk of the research herself.”

  “So Lee didn’t report him,” I said.

  “No. She ended the relationship, but she felt her doctorate was a sham, so she turned down the tenured position at U OF S and came home.”

  “What happened to the adviser?”

  “Nothing. He had tenure.”

  “Did you ever find out what happened to the master’s student?”

  “She reinvented herself. She started working out, became a blond, got a great haircut and slick new wardrobe, switched her thesis topic to municipal planning, and after she got her degree she went to work for Graham Meighen at Lancaster. When he died, she took over as CEO.”

  I was incredulous. “The other student was Quinn Donnelly?” I said. “Warren said there was bad blood between Quinn and Lee. That would certainly explain it.”

  “Lee tried to apologize to Quinn when it happened. Lee told her she believed the research had come from her adviser and that she’d acknowledged his contribution in her dissertation. Over the years, Lee held out the olive branch several times, especially after Quinn and Mansell were married, but Quinn was never in a forgiving mood.”

  Remembering the smile that had played on Quinn’s lips during the funeral, I felt a chill. I shook it off, picked up the drawers, and slid them back in place in the bureau. “We’re through here,” I said. “Pete can carry down the boxes.”

  Maisie smoothed the white chenille bedspread on Lee’s bed and straightened a photograph of Colin Brokenshire on the nightstand. Her fingers lingered for a few seconds on the photograph’s silver frame. “Is it too soon for me to ask for a little more time on your shoulder,” she said.

  “No,” I said. “It’s not too soon.” I held Maisie in my arms until she stepped away, “I’m okay now,” she said.

  “Good,” I said. “Let’s go downstairs so we can look at what you’ll be wearing for the next four months.”

  Throughout her pregnancies Margot had continued to be involved in decision-making at Peyben Development. Her maternity wardrobe was extensive: casual clothes and some very smart business attire and eveningwear.

  Maisie held up a gorgeous peacock-blue, full-length silk gown. “Check the neckline on this,” she said. “I’ve never worn anything cut that low in my life.”

  “I guess the idea is to showcase your burgeoning assets,” I said.

  She cocked her head at her mirrored self. “Actually, just this morning Pete complimented me on my burgeoning assets.” She smiled, and for the first time since Lee’s death, her smile was not shadowed by sorrow. She hung up the dress and looked thoughtfully at a blouse the colour of a cut peach. “Did Bobby tell you that he’s going to help us at the farm till we find our feet?”

  “He did,” I said. “And I think it’s a terrific plan.”

  “It’s a godsend,” Maisie said. “Bobby is familiar with every millimetre of this farm.” She turned from the mirror to face me. “And right now he needs us as much as we need him.” Maisie folded the peach blouse and replaced it in the packing box. For a few moments we were silent, lost in our private thoughts.

  Maisie picked up a silky summer nightgown, held it against her cheek, and smiled. “Pete is going to love this nightie,” she said.

  “And you’re going to love seeing Pete loving you in that nightie,” I said. “Maisie, you two have so many good times ahead.”

  Her eyes met mine. “I know,” she said. She closed her eyes and when she opened them, I knew that the idyllic moment she had been holding in her mind had been replaced by other pictures – pictures that would never exist.

  “Lee should have had a chance to experience this kind of happiness.”

  “But she never did?”

  “Just once, and she cherished it. She was on the brink of having everything she’d ever wanted and then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone. You read about people dying of a broken heart. For months after she lost the man she loved, I was afraid my sister would die of a broken heart.”

  “But she didn’t,” I said.

  “No. She came back, but she was changed. She enjoyed the company of men and she liked sex, but she always kept the men with whom she was involved at a distance. I’m sure it was because she couldn’t risk the pain of loving anyone deeply again. So, it was always no strings.”

  “And the men Lee was with accepted this?”

  “Lee thought so, but since she died I’ve spent many nights wondering if she was wrong about one of them. When she was in a relationship Lee was always monogamous and the affairs often lasted months, so I came to know the men in her life. They all seemed like fine people, even Simon before he got sick. None of them seemed capable of violence. Of course, some were initially bitter about the breakup, but in time they all ended up being friends with Lee.” Maisie’s gold-flecked eyes were troubled. “But who knows? Sometimes, I wonder whether any of us can ever truly know another human being.

  “Court dockets are filled with cases where seemingly normal people have committed unspeakable crimes because they believed a lover betrayed them. I’ve handled a few of those cases myself – spousal murder cases are the worst – the ‘wronged’ partner often feels the need to mutilate the spouse’s wedding ring finger.

  “When I went to the morgue to see Lee’s body, the first place I looked at was at her ring finger. The skin was torn and the finger itself appeared to be broken. Lee’s killer mangled her finger, ripping the engagement ring off. Who
did that? Was it Simon? Was it one of the men whom Lee believed was reconciled to the breakup but who carried a smouldering hatred that finally burst into flames? What’s driving me craziest about Lee’s murder is not knowing why it happened. What set of circumstances made the killer come into the barn with a gun that afternoon? Who decided that May 17 was the day Lee Crawford would die?”

  CHAPTER

  13

  Tuesday morning, I’d just finished showering when Warren Weber called me. “You and I have some fences to mend,” he said, “and there’s no time like the present. Are you free for lunch today?”

  “I am, and, Warren, I really am looking forward to seeing you.”

  I could hear the relief in his voice. “Zack has suggested once or twice that you might enjoy my club. Would that be acceptable?”

  “More than acceptable,” I said.

  “I’ll send my driver to pick you up at half past noon. The club is famous for its Old Fashioneds, and I’d like you to enjoy one without worrying about the drive home.”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” I said.

  When I came into our bedroom, Zack was laying out his clothes for the day. “You look pleased,” he said.

  “I am pleased. That was Warren Weber. He wants to have lunch with me so we can mend fences. My guess is Warren also wants to personally deliver his private investigators’ findings about Lee’s life.”

  “And you’re not still angry about that?”

  “Not as angry as I was. Yesterday when I was out at the farm, I could see that not knowing who killed Lee is tearing Maisie apart. She can’t take much more uncertainty. As painful as it might be, our daughter-in-law needs to know the truth. I’m hoping there’s something in the report that brings us closer to knowing what really happened that afternoon.”

  Zack wheeled towards me. “We all need to know the truth,” he said. “But at the moment, I’m just relieved you and Warren are getting together. I understood why you were angry about what he was doing, but Warren’s been a good friend to us.”