by Gail Bowen
“Are you a cat lover as well as a dog lover?” George asked.
“Our daughter, Taylor, is the cat person in our house. She has a tortoiseshell and a combo. She’d love a ginger.”
“When these little guys are ready to leave their mother, Taylor can take her pick,” George said.
“I’ll pass that along,” I said.
The Sawchuk kitchen was much like the kitchen in the home where the Crawford twins had grown up: the same 1950s chrome dinette set, the same round-shouldered refrigerator, the same wood stove. A calendar from Weber Farm Machinery, Warren’s family’s company, hung on a nail beside the old, wall-mounted telephone.
George poured two glasses of lemonade, put six Peek Freans Digestive Biscuits on a plate that had been placed between us on the table, ripped off two paper towels for napkins, and then disappeared down the hall. He returned with a framed eight-by-ten photograph of himself with Colin Brokenshire and Mansell Donnelly that he laid on the table in front of me. The photo in Lee’s office had captured the exuberance of three adolescent boys eager to grab everything the shining world had to offer. In this photo, the men were middle-aged, hair greying or thinning, flesh sagging slightly, eyes wary with the knowledge that everything the world offers comes with a price tag, but their smiles were unforced.
George pulled his chair close so we could look at the photograph together. For a few moments he was silent. Finally, he shook his head as if to bring himself back to the present. When I’d called George earlier, I told him how important it was to discover if Lee had any men in her life when she was doing her first university degree, but from the beginning George’s conversation veered off in a direction that seemed only tangentially relevant.
“Colin, Mansell, and I met in kindergarten,” he began. “And we were best friends until the day Colin died. After that – well, you saw in the cafeteria how things are between Mansell and me.”
“Do you have any idea why he turned against you?”
“At first I thought he felt guilty about the accident, but I never blamed him – how could I? In a way, Colin’s death was the end of Mansell’s life – at least the end of the life he wanted. Farming was in his blood, but after Colin died, Mansell handed over responsibility for the farm to Bette, moved to Regina, and got involved with commercial and rural real estate. He hated that work. I could see it in his face. And he broke off with the woman he’d been with for years – a really fine woman, a teacher who wanted the same things from life he did. I knew he was punishing himself.
“And we were all suffering. My marriage broke up. I started having panic attacks when I was around other people. My ex-wife told me it was survivor guilt, but whatever the cause, the attacks were debilitating. It was months before I could leave the farm.”
“But you’re doing all right now?”
“Some days are better than others,” he said simply.
I looked again at the picture. “So much pain for all of you,” I said.
George stared at the photograph. “At least Colin died happy. I’ll always be grateful for that.”
“It must have made him happy to know the twins’ lives were on the right path,” I said. “They’d both finished their undergraduate degrees. Maisie was starting at the College of Law and from what Peter tells me she never had a shortage of suitors. Lee had obviously found her passion in agriculture. Had she found the right man to share her passion with?”
I waited, but George didn’t reply. Instead he picked up my glass. “Refill?” he asked.
When I shook my head, he took the empty glasses to the sink. “So now you know our history,” he said.
“Not all of it,” I said. “Was there a man in Lee’s life?”
George turned and his eyes met mine. “Joanne, let Lee take some parts of her history with her,” he said. “Let her rest in peace.”
I headed home burdened with shards of information I couldn’t fit together and questions I couldn’t answer. Why did George avoid talking about Lee’s past? Why had Mansell shut George out and broken his heart and his health? Why had Mansell punished himself for eleven years for an accident? As I waited for the condo parking gate to lift, I remembered an exchange between Alice and the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. Alice asks the White Rabbit, “How long is forever?” He replies, “Sometimes, just one second.”
On a hot September night, Mansell Donnelly had momentarily lost his focus and the lives of everyone close to him had been changed forever. I drove into the darkness of the parkade wondering if Mansell had ever read Alice in Wonderland, and, if he had, whether the White Rabbit’s response to Alice’s question had haunted him as I knew it would haunt me.
CHAPTER
14
The next morning I was watering the flowers on our terrace when Milo called. “Nothing to report from the gay bar scene. I had to hang around for a few hours till the crowds picked up, but I met some nice guys. Everybody knows Slater, and the ones who know him best are worried. Apparently he’s indulging in the drugs, booze, and risky sex to stave off his desperation. When he’s high, he’s euphoric, king of the world, babbling on about his secret plan to decimate our vote – no specifics, of course. When he comes down, he’s so depressed some of his acquaintances fear he’s suicidal. A few of the men I talked to said Michael Goetz is the only one who might be able to get through to Slater, but Michael’s not part of the bar scene and nobody I spoke to knows him well enough to approach him.”
“Brock and Michael are still close,” I said. “Maybe Brock can encourage Michael to make an intervention. We’ve already taken the dogs for their run, but I might be able to catch Brock before he goes to work.”
“Text me.”
“I will,” I said.
The suits Milo and I swam in were still on the wood drying rack. I took them off and was smoothing them just as Zack came through the terrace door. “Everything okay?” he said.
“As okay as it ever is these days,” I said. “I’m going downstairs to see if I can catch Brock before he goes to Racette-Hunter.”
Zack eyed the bathing suits. “Looks like you got your swim in yesterday after all,” he said.
“Milo and I did some laps before you came home yesterday afternoon. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have waited.”
The corners of Zack’s mouth tightened. “Would you?” he said, and then he turned his chair and rolled inside.
Zack was on the phone when I went back in. I leaned over, whispered, “I’ll be right back,” and headed for Brock’s. When the elevator doors opened at his floor, he was waiting. We both laughed. “Just in the nick of time,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Milo hit the gay bars yesterday and a lot of men are concerned about Slater’s determination to crash and burn. Brock, I don’t care what Slater does to himself, but Bridie’s part of the equation. No one wants to see her hurt.”
“Of course not.”
“Any chance you could talk to Michael this morning?”
“He’s in Saskatoon.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“I’m not sure, but it won’t be long. He wouldn’t have gone at all, but he has a meeting with the College of Physicians and Surgeons.”
“He’s trying to get back his licence to practise psychiatry?”
“Yes, so it’s important. But Michael asked me to drop by his house after work. He’s anxious about leaving Bridie alone with Slater.”
“Surely, Bridie is safe with her own father. I saw them together during the campaign. He seemed devoted to her.”
“That’s my feeling too, but Michael’s closer to the situation than we are. He was concerned enough to call Bridie’s former nanny to see if she’d reconsider her resignation. It turns out Zenaya didn’t resign. Slater fired her.”
“Why would Slater lie about that?”
Brock shrugged. “Who knows? Anyway, it’s a moot point. Zenaya refused to come back. She said that although she’s very fond of Bridie, she’s afraid of Slater and s
he’s uncomfortable being around him.”
“Milo says Slater’s using,” I said.
“Milo’s right,” Brock said. “Slater is using everything and everybody. He’s self-medicating, and he’s using Bridie to keep Michael in the marriage because he’s terrified of being alone and he knows Michael won’t leave their daughter. It’s a lousy situation.”
“One more thing to worry about,” I said.
“Why don’t you let me worry about this one?” Brock said. “You’ve been carrying too many burdens for too long. Give yourself a day off.”
“Sold,” I said. “Let me know if you’re able to get in touch with Michael.”
Busying myself with the tasks of daily life has always been my antidote for fretting. My to-do list was always robust and that morning I didn’t have to look beyond the first item. Mieka was bringing Madeleine and Lena by after school for a swim. Over the winter the girls had both grown like the fabled weeds, and they needed new bathing suits. So did Mieka, who seldom bought anything for herself but was gracious about accepting a gift.
I hate shopping, but I found exactly what I wanted at reasonable prices within an hour, and I celebrated by coming home and making Madeleine and Lena’s favourite – snickerdoodles. Milo had texted only to say he would come by later to report the latest numbers. He arrived at three-thirty, and the news was good. Our base was holding and we were picking up support from people who self-identified as likely to vote on Referendum Day. I knew Zack could use a shot of optimism and I was anxious to repair the rift between us. When Milo agreed to stick around and give the girls a diving lesson, I texted Zack to come home and join us so he could get an account of the numbers and see that Milo was simply part of a larger picture that included us all.
The weather had continued glorious. It was Goldilocks weather – not too cold, not too hot – just right. Mieka and the girls were enthusiastic about their new suits, and as Mieka, Zack, and I watched Milo show the girls how make a clean, graceful entry into the water, we were relaxed and happy. Seemingly summer was once again working her languorous magic. When I spotted Brock walking across the grass towards us, I called out. “Just in time for the lesson,” I said. “Pull up a lazy lounge.”
Brock didn’t respond. When he came closer, I saw that he had the five-mile stare of a man in shock. “I just had a call from Michael,” he said. “Bridie’s missing.”
My mind raced. “Missing,” I said. “Is Michael sure? She could be at a friend’s.”
“Bridie doesn’t have any friends,” Brock said.
Mieka’s eyes were wide with fear. “How long has Bridie been gone?”
“I don’t know,” Brock said. “Slater had a party last night, and he was hung over today. Bridie was playing in the backyard, and Slater went back to bed to sleep it off. When Slater checked the yard again, Bridie was gone. Slater searched the neighbourhood and then called Michael in Saskatoon. As soon as Michael heard about Bridie, he drove back to Regina.”
Zack’s voice was acid. “But Slater had called the police,” he said.
Brock hesitated. “No. Michael called them when he got back to the house.”
“What the hell?” Zack said. “It takes two and a half hours to drive from Saskatoon to Regina. Counting the time Slater was supposedly searching the neighbourhood, by the time the cops were called, Bridie would have been missing for at the very least three hours.”
Mieka was pale. “Let me take the girls upstairs to change. They’re through their lesson, and you need to be able to talk to Milo.”
My daughter and I took towels to the swimmers, and after Mieka shepherded Madeleine and Lena inside, I told Milo about the abduction.
He dried off his hair, wrapped the towel around his waist, and levelled his gaze at me. “So Slater was so deep into street drugs and street boys, he forgot he had a daughter,” he said. His black eyes were piercing. “How could anyone with a heart do that, Joanne?”
“I don’t know,” I said. As Milo and I walked across the lawn, the memory of Bridie’s delicately boned hand in mine the night of Margot’s party overwhelmed me and I stumbled. Milo took my arm. “I’m here,” he said. And for the time being that was enough.
When we joined them, Zack and Brock were still trying to sort through the facts as we knew them. I could feel Zack’s frustration. “None of this makes sense,” he said. “Why didn’t Slater call the police as soon as he realized that Bridie was missing?”
“Michael said Slater thought he needed to clean up the house before the police came,” Brock said.
Zack’s voice was coldly furious. “I’m not grasping the sequence here,” he said. “Slater’s a bottom-feeder, but he’s not an idiot. He knows that if a child is abducted every minute counts.”
“Slater said the party got out of hand,” Brock said. “There were a lot of empty bottles and there was drug paraphernalia.”
I had seldom seen Zack so angry. “Jesus Christ. Slater used to be a lawyer,” he said. “He must have known that he was destroying evidence that might help the authorities find his daughter.” He wheeled closer to Brock. “I’m assuming that by now Michael has told the cops everything.”
Brock shook his head. “Slater’s pleading with Michael not to tell them about the partying. He says that they’re married and that Michael owes him loyalty.”
Zack snorted with disgust. “A child’s life is at stake,” he said. “Michael owes Slater fuck all.”
“Zack’s right,” Milo said. “The men I talked to at the bars said that these days Slater’s reduced to bringing home dregs. Michael’s a wealthy man. Someone at Slater’s party last night might have decided that they could get a lot of money for Bridie.”
Feeling helpless and impotent, the four of us went up to our condo to wait for news. It wasn’t long in coming. We’d just settled in when Michael texted Brock to tell him the police had arrived to interview Slater, and that Michael was going to make certain Slater told the truth. Twenty minutes later Michael texted again to say that Slater had given the police the full story.
Zack’s mouth curled in disgust. “I’ll bet the cops had Doyle twisting in the wind. I wish I’d been there.”
Michael was climbing the walls, and Brock had agreed to meet him for a drink. After Brock left, I went into the kitchen to start dinner. There was a note from Taylor on the butcher-block table. “At my studio. Put something from freezer in oven for dinner. Couldn’t tell what it was. Might be chicken.”
Zack and I exchanged smiles. “Life’s a crapshoot,” he said. “Let’s have a drink to celebrate the fact that we might be having chicken for dinner.”
I invited Milo to stay but, as always, he had places to go and people to see. Milo’s inner life was, in Churchill’s famous phrase, a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, so I never pressed. I set the table and Zack and I took our martinis out on the terrace. We’d taken one sip when Zack’s cell rang. He listened, said, “See you in a few minutes,” and broke the connection. “That was Debbie Haczkewicz,” he said, opening his tablet. “She called to let me know the police have received information about Bridie Doyle.”
Zack’s expression was grim, and he handed his tablet to me without further comment. A photo of Bridie filled the screen. She was sitting on an old and rough-hewn child’s rocking horse. The wallpaper behind her had a pattern of pink cabbage roses. It was faded and, in one place, torn. Bridie was wearing purple jeans and a T-shirt in bubblegum pink, the favoured shade of very young girls. She was clean, and her wavy white-blond hair had been brushed and fastened neatly by pink butterfly barrettes, but her small face was pinched with terror. The photograph was labelled “An Eye for an Eye.”
Panic washed over me. “So kidnapping Bridie is retribution,” I said. “But by whom and for what?”
“I don’t know,” Zack said. “Some of the mourners at the vigil for Lee carried signs with that slogan. And we saw some real whack jobs outside the church after Lee’s funeral.”
“The night Bri
die came up to the roof garden for Margot’s birthday party, she told me she was shy,” I said. “I told her she’d be fine because she had friends at the party. She added up the number of people she knew on the roof: Madeleine, Lena, Mieka, Brock, and me. She asked if five was enough to keep her from being scared. I said five would be enough.” My voice broke. “Zack, wherever she is now, Bridie doesn’t know anybody. She’s absolutely alone except for the person who abducted her.”
Zack set down his drink and held out his arms to me. “Debbie’s on her way over. We’re going to pull out all the stops to find Bridie, and we will find her, Jo. Count on it.”
I finished my drink, went into the bathroom, washed my face, and freshened my lipstick. Then I checked the casserole. It did indeed appear to be chicken.
Police Chief Debbie Haczkewicz and Zack went way back. Like lions and buffalo, cops and trial lawyers are natural adversaries, but Debbie and Zack had a bond. When Debbie’s son, Leo, was in his late teens he was in a motorcycle accident that left him paralyzed from the waist down. Leo isolated himself in his misery and was bitter and abusive to anyone who offered help. Fearful that her son would take his own life, Debbie called Zack. After a month of battles that often ended in physical blows, Leo realized that Zack wasn’t going anywhere, and he began to listen. At Zack’s urging, Leo went back to school, earned a degree in teaching English as a Second Language, and moved to Japan, where he met Miyoshi, the woman who became his wife and the mother of his son. Debbie credited Zack for the happy outcome.
For years, Debbie had been head of Major Crimes. Zack had seen her in action, and he liked and respected her. Shortly after Zack was sworn in as mayor, the position of chief of police came open. The city hired a consulting firm to recruit nationally for candidates, and Debbie applied. She was experienced; she understood the community; she had been active in the police union; and she was dogged. As mayor, Zack chaired the board of police commissioners; when the board chose Debbie, Zack was publicly pleased and privately jubilant. He knew he and Debbie could work well together.
