by Gail Bowen
“Agreed,” I said. “He’s even sending his driver to pick me up and take me to the Scarth Club for lunch.”
Zack chuckled. “And I’ll bet Warren suggested that you would enjoy one of the Scarth Club’s Old Fashioneds. They really are something else – the bar has been using the same recipe for a hundred and twenty-five years and it’s dynamite.”
“They knew how to mix drinks back then when men were men and women weren’t allowed in the club,” I said.
“Point taken,” Zack said. “And maybe if women had been allowed in the club back in the day, the food wouldn’t still be so lousy.”
“Is the food bad?”
“The worst,” Zack said. “The chef gets a great cut of beef and cooks it till it’s grey. The vegetables taste like they’ve spent hours on the steam table, which they have, and you can stand a spoon up in the gravy.”
“And no one complains?”
Zack shrugged. “It’s part of the charm, like the pictures of all the old farts who served as club presidents, and that great motto carved in the mantel over the fireplace in the Portrait Gallery: ‘They builded better than they knew.’ ”
Warren’s driver arrived at twelve-thirty on the nose. Warren, tanned and seemingly relaxed, jumped out to greet me. He was well turned out in a vibrant cobalt blazer, white shirt and trousers, and cobalt loafers. As we drove to the club we exchanged pleasantries. Warren was courtly, and after his driver had helped me out of the car, Warren took my arm and escorted me up the front steps and into the bar. We ordered Old Fashioneds, and when they were in hand, Warren asked if he could show me around.
He didn’t have to ask twice. After we’d explored the Portrait Gallery and cruised the dining room with its steam table of vegetables, Warren led me across the hall to a room with closed double doors. “This used to be a private dining room,” he said, “very charming in my father’s time, but it was showing its age, and people had stopped using it.” He opened the doors with a theatrical flourish. “They’re using it now,” he said.
We stepped inside. The room had high ceilings and large windows. The floors were gleaming pine planks, and the dark oak hutch, sideboards, mismatched dining tables, and chairs were in mint condition. “This is absolutely stunning,” I said.
“All the furniture came from farm estate auctions,” Warren said. “We’ve had the pieces refinished, of course, but they are old beauties, aren’t they?”
I nodded. “Your decorator did a great job.”
Warren beamed. “Annie was the decorator. She had help, but she made the decisions.”
“Annie has a good eye,” I said. The paint on the walls was the colour of clotted cream, and the long feature wall was filled with framed black-and-white photographs.
“All the photographs are of rooms in abandoned Saskatchewan farmhouses,” Warren said. “Some of them were taken in the Dirty Thirties.” He pointed at a silvery photograph of a kitchen. The oilcloth-covered table was set for a meal. There was a kettle on the woodstove and a Crisco can by the sink. “That Crisco can brings back memories,” Warren said. “My mother always kept a Crisco can in the kitchen so she could reuse grease.” He laughed. “My father was a millionaire, but my mother lived through the Dust Bowl years, and she knew families who lived in houses like these – hard-working people so beaten down that they just walked away, leaving tables set, laundry drying, and family Bibles open at the Twenty-Third Psalm.”
I put on my reading glasses to examine the photos more closely. “These are heartbreaking,” I said. “Where did you get them?”
Warren’s face lit with pleasure. “Simon,” he said. “Photography’s his hobby. He scoured the province, unearthed these, and restored them. I don’t know what process he used.”
“Whatever he did worked,” I said. “These photographs look as if they were taken yesterday.”
“And restoration isn’t my son’s only talent,” Warren said. “He’s an excellent photographer in his own right. Come have a look.”
I followed Warren to an alcove off the dining room. More photographs of abandoned farmhouses lined the walls. They, too, were stunning. “These make me think of Walker Evans’s work,” I said.
Warren sipped his Old Fashioned. “I’ll pass that along to Simon. We’re having a collector’s edition of Simon’s photographs hand-bound for the official opening of the private dining room on Saskatchewan Day. Annie and I are hoping that some public acknowledgement of his gifts will rekindle Simon’s passion for photography. At any rate, when the collector’s edition is ready, I’ll make sure you and Zack get a copy.”
“We’d appreciate that,” I said. “We need to be reminded of our history.”
“We do,” Warren said. “And Simon came up with a title we all like. We’re calling the collection What’s Left Behind. My son chose the epigraph too. It’s from Ansel Adams. ‘Not everybody trusts paintings but people believe photographs.’ ”
“That packs a punch,” I said. “Warren, it’s so good to learn about this side of Simon,” I said. “How is he doing?”
“Not well. The police haven’t made a move, but we’re all on edge. Simon still doesn’t remember anything, and despite our entreaties, he won’t go further with the hypnosis. He’s taken to driving around aimlessly all day. He has his camera with him, but when Annie or I ask if he’s taking pictures, he doesn’t answer. Sometimes I wonder if I ever knew my son at all.” Warren tried a smile. “But I guess we’re all icebergs to one another,” he said.
“Maisie and I were talking about that very topic yesterday.”
Warren’s expression was concerned. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s coping, but it’s not easy.”
“Let me know if there’s ever anything I can do.”
“I will,” I said.
“I never make an offer of help I don’t mean, Joanne.”
“I know that. I promise I’ll call on you if the need arises, and, Warren, I want you to know that you can always call on me.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Now, you must be hungry. Let’s go in to lunch.”
I had spent thirteen years in a boarding school. Overdone beef, overcooked vegetables, and wallpaper-paste gravy held no terrors for me. I spooned gravy over everything and cleaned my plate. The choices on the dessert menu were straight out of 1970: baked Alaska, a Harvey Wallbanger cake, cherries jubilee, and a chocolate malted milkshake. It was a tough choice, but it had been decades since I’d thought about Harvey. When I tasted the cake’s Galliano-vodka-orange glaze, it was 1974 all over again.
Our lunch together had reminded us that we were genuinely fond of each other. When we sat down in the Portrait Gallery to enjoy our coffee, I told Warren that Maisie was paying a high price for her uncertainty about why her sister died and that if he was ready to talk about his investigators’ report, I was ready to listen.
Warren’s relief was obvious. He touched my hand. “You’ve taken a load off my mind, Joanne. I’ll send you a copy of the investigators’ findings and I strongly suggest you hand it along to Maisie. I should tell you at the outset that the report does not provide any dramatic revelations. The best we can hope for is that the details might jog Maisie’s memory and point the police in a new and useful direction.”
Clearly Warren had read the report thoroughly and frequently. He spoke without notes or hesitation. “From the time she was twenty-two until the time she died at the age of thirty-three, Lee had a number of romantic relationships. The investigators determined that when Lee was in a relationship, she was always monogamous, so we can conclude that over that eleven-year period, she had relationships with ten men. The names of the men and dates indicating the span of their respective affairs with Lee are in the report.”
I was taken aback at what seemed to be an unusual omission. “Warren, I find it very difficult to believe that Lee didn’t have a sexual relationship until she was twenty-two.”
“I questioned that as well,” Warren said. “Harries-Crosby are the be
st in the business, but I was sure they’d missed something, so I asked them to go through Lee’s activities during her undergraduate years again. In her program at the College of Agriculture and Bioresources there were four students Lee had known since high school. Apparently, the group studied together, partied together, and even shared a house. They all still live in Saskatchewan, and they were very cooperative with the people from Harries-Crosby. They were devoted to Lee, and they want the person who killed her brought to justice. They all said the same thing: Lee had plenty of friends, but she didn’t date. She went home to the farm every Friday as soon as classes were over and drove back to Saskatoon early Monday morning.”
“Maybe there was someone back home,” I said.
“Not according to her friends,” Warren said. “They claim that the five of them discussed everything. Lee was always open about what she’d done on the weekend, and she never mentioned dating anybody. Her university friends are certain there was no man in her life.”
“That seems odd for an outgoing young woman like Lee, doesn’t it?” I said.
“Yes,” Warren agreed. “It does. Perhaps if you show Maisie the report, she’ll have something to add.”
“I’ll talk to Peter, but I’m sure he’ll agree that Maisie should see what your investigators came up with.”
“Thank you.” Warren pulled his chair closer to the table and lowered his voice. “There’s something else. Mansell Donnelly came to see me this morning.”
“He’s had some big changes in his life.”
“He has, and I’m glad of it. As you can imagine, Mansell has a great deal on his mind. He needs to talk, but he doesn’t know whom to trust. I seem to fit the bill. His late father, Aidan, and I were friends, and I knew Mansell and Bette when they were children.”
“They seem very close. Were they always that way?”
“Tight as ticks,” Warren said. “Bette used to lead Mansell by the nose.”
“And now Quinn leads him by the nose – or did.”
Warren nodded. “You’re correct in using the past tense, Joanne. That marriage is definitely over.”
“I never liked Quinn,” I said. “But it is sad when a marriage ends. This referendum is taking a terrible toll.”
“It is,” Warren agreed. “And that brings me to my final point. This may be nothing, but Mansell told me that Quinn called very early this morning to goad him. She said that Slater Doyle is about to deliver a game-changer that will make Mansell regret he jumped ship.”
“I don’t suppose Quinn elaborated.”
“No, but I think her taunt merits serious attention.” Warren sipped his coffee, grimaced, and pushed away his cup. “The coffee here is almost as bad as the food,” he said.
“The Old Fashioneds make up for everything,” I said and stood. “Thanks for lunch. I had a fine time, but the party’s over. It’s time to see what Slater Doyle is up to.”
As we were waiting for Warren’s driver, I called Milo and asked him to meet me at the condo. When we pulled up in front of our place on Halifax Street, Milo’s Harley was parked near the building’s entrance and Milo himself was sitting on the stoop waiting. It was a pretty day, so I sat beside him and told him about Quinn Donnelly’s call to Mansell.
Milo’s response was surprisingly explosive. “Well, shit fuck. In my spare time lately, I’ve been stalking Slater – nothing serious, just playing with his head. Every time he catches me, he mutters about unleashing a master plan. I’ve ignored him because most of the time he’s so stoned he forgets to pee downwind.”
“Slater’s into pharmaceuticals?” I said.
“Pharmas, street drugs, booze, and questionable dates,” Milo said. “Slater has become one wild and crazy guy, but I should have taken him seriously. Even a blind pig finds an acorn once in a while.” Milo turned to look at me. His eyes were so dark they were almost black. “Jo, do you have any idea what this could be about?”
I shook my head. “What I have is so nebulous, I don’t know if it’s even a starting point.”
Milo had cut back on the Crispy Crunch bars, but these were desperate times, and he whipped one out and unwrapped it without hesitation. By the time I delivered my précis of the Harries-Crosby report, the bar was gone and Milo had begun drumming on his motorcycle helmet with his long fingers. “You think Quinn and Slater found something incriminating Lee did during those four years?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It could be something all together different. Slater has played the slut card ad nauseam, and we continue to pull ahead in the votes.”
“So we dismiss Lee as a late bloomer when it came to romance and focus on the political angle.”
“Let’s split it up,” I said. “I have a gut feeling that the motive for Lee’s murder was personal. This so-called game-changer is political. Why don’t I follow the Lee angle and you keep spooking Slater?”
“Fair enough,” Milo said. He stood and started to put on his helmet.
“It’s getting hot,” I said. “Let’s go for a swim before we explore the possibilities.”
Milo and I had never swum together alone, and after we completed a few laps, we discovered we swam alike: smooth, straight-armed, deep catch strokes; rhythmical rotations of the core with each stroke; and bilateral breathing – inhales on the right for one length of the pool and on the left for the next length. We swam in perfect cadence, and there was an intimacy in the unison of our movements.
When finally Milo and I pulled ourselves out of the pool and started for the elevator, we were silent. Neither of us wanted to break the invisible bond between us. I showered and changed in my bathroom and Milo used the guest bathroom. As he walked down the hall towards me, dressed again for the outside world, Milo was beaming. “That swim was transcendent,” he said.
“It was transcendent for me too.” I said. We took our suits to the terrace and hung them on an old wooden drying rack I’d bought at a garage sale; then, still warmed by memory, we picked up our phones and started making calls. My first call was to George Sawchuk, asking him if he had time for a conversation with me about Lee. He did, and Milo and I were on our way out the door when Zack came in, jacket slung over the back of his chair and tie loosened. He looked hot, exhausted, and miserable.
I kissed him hello. “This is a pleasant surprise,” I said.
“The air-conditioning in the office quit, I was averaging about thirty calls an hour, and I’d dealt with everything that needed immediate attention. I still have a city council meeting at five-thirty, so I thought you and I might have a swim and I’d make us a gin and tonic.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish you’d called. There’ve been some developments and Milo and I were just going our separate ways to deal with them.”
Zack sighed. “My loss,” he said. “So what’s up?”
I filled him in on the report from Harries-Crosby, underscoring Lee’s apparently man-less undergraduate years, and told him that I was meeting George Sawchuk at four-thirty to talk about Lee’s life during that time.
Milo said that was he was going to hit the gay bars to see if any pals of Slater’s had started the cocktail hour early and were in the mood for a chat. Milo and I were making our second attempt to get out the door when Taylor came home from school.
From the moment they met, Milo and Taylor had clicked, and that afternoon when she greeted him with a hug as she always had, I was relieved that she had taken me at my word when I said that Milo and I were simply friends.
As it turned out, Milo had news for our daughter. “T, when I was in Calgary last week I saw copies of two of your paintings in Corydon.”
Taylor’s eyes widened. “How was the placement?”
“Primo,” Milo said. “The store has this wicked open winding staircase in the middle of the main floor, and Blue Boy 21 and Endangered are at the head of the stairs. I started to snap some pictures for you, but Corydon’s staff are protective of their clientele’s privacy.”
“Thanks for
trying. And thanks for telling me about the great placement. I get a lot of tweets from people ragging at me for selling out because I’m letting my work be used commercially.”
Milo put his hands on Taylor’s shoulders and looked into her eyes. “Remember what Bob Marley said. ‘Flee from hate, mischief, and jealousy.’ Taylor, I would never have seen Blue Boy 21 and Endangered if they hadn’t been in that store. You’re bringing something beautiful into the lives of people like me. Be proud.”
As quickly as it came, the moment ended. Milo tossed Taylor a Crispy Crunch and told her it was a token from a patron of the arts. When he left, she offered to walk him to the elevator.
After the door closed behind them, I turned to Zack. “Another side to Milo,” I said.
“Corydon is a very cool store,” Zack said. “It’s also very gay. I wonder what Milo was doing there.”
“Buying gotch,” I said. “Brock, Milo, and I were hanging around waiting for you last week and Milo asked if either of us knew of a place in Regina that sold Andrew Christian boxer briefs. I didn’t, but Brock told Milo that Corydon in Calgary carries Andrew Christan. I guess Milo dropped by.”
“A lot goes on around here that I don’t know about,” Zack said.
I kissed him on the top of his head. “We try to shelter you,” I said. “Now I’d better get a move on.”
As soon as I parked in the driveway of the Sawchuk farm, George came out, accompanied by two black German shepherds. “You’re okay with dogs, aren’t you?” George said.
“More than okay,” I said. “I’ve been a dog lover my entire life, and I’ve never seen a shepherd with an all-black coat. These two are gorgeous.”
“They’re my boys – Conrad and Cyrus,” George said. “Let them get a sniff and they’ll wander off.”
I held out my palm. As George predicted, after a quick sniff, the boys loped off in search of fresh adventures.
“Come inside where it’s cool,” George said.
To get to the kitchen we had to pass through the front porch, where a ginger cat was nursing a litter of ginger kittens. I stopped to watch.
