by Gail Bowen
The dragon who strolled through the door of the Noodle House was a nice-looking young man badly in need of a shave and some sleep. He carried a travel-worn Regina Rams backpack. He looked around the room. “Is Milo here?”
“No. I’m Joanne Shreve. Milo and I’ve been working together on the referendum vote. Can I help you?”
He shifted his backpack. “I don’t know. This is a bit complicated,” he said. “Maybe I’d better wait for Milo.” His body swayed, and I reached out to keep him from falling. He laughed. “Or maybe I’d better not wait. As you can see, I’m dead on my feet.” He held out his hand to me and gave me a smile that was brief but real. “My name’s Dustin Kovac.”
I thought his face was familiar, but I’d taught university for two decades and over the years, there’d been many young faces. Dustin Kovac might have been a former student or a volunteer, or both. Racking my brain for context was pointless.
“Pleased to meet you, Dustin,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“I just got back from Belgrade,” he said. “My grandfather was dying and my parents hoped I’d get there before he passed.” He waited expectantly until I picked up my cue.
“Did you make it?” I said.
“Yes, but it was pretty much a disaster. My grandfather thought I was my father when he was young, and he got mad because when he talked to me in Serbian one of my aunts had to translate so I could answer. He kept yelling ‘stmjika stmjika’ at me. That means ‘stubborn.’ ” Dustin shrugged. “At least now I know one word of Serbian.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.”
“It was okay,” he said. “I got to meet my dad’s family. They’re pretty cool, and the old man gave me a kiss before he died. When I put my arms around him, he said, ‘I don’t know who you are, but they say you’re mine, so here’s a kiss.’ Then he said, ‘Next time we speak Serbian.’ ” Dustin laughed and shook his head. “Why am I telling you this?”
“Because you’re jet-lagged,” I said. “Did you come straight from the airport?”
“Yeah, I figured better late than never, and I thought Milo should see this.” He slid his backpack off and took out his phone. “It may not mean anything, but I’m studying journalism and they say that if something seems suspicious, we should record it.”
The significance of the video didn’t hit me at first. A man and a woman were in the parking lot of a strip mall having what was clearly an intense discussion. The pair was too far away for the camera to pick up their words, but their identity was unmistakable. Slater Doyle and Bette Stevens certainly made an odd couple. Slater was upset. Bette was trying to calm him down. Finally, she took out an envelope, put it on the hood of Slater’s Lexus, and wrote something. Slater looked at the envelope quickly, nodded, then got into his car and drove off. Bette’s red truck wasn’t far behind.
As I stared at the video I felt a frisson of excitement. “Dustin, do you remember when you took this?”
“Yeah, Friday, June 5. The day before I left for Serbia.”
“And today’s June 17,” I said.
“Right,” he said. “Have you ever been to Serbia?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s like another world. When I was there, I didn’t think about Regina once. Then on the plane home, reality hit. I realized today was the referendum – the subject of my major paper for my investigative journalism class – and I didn’t have a clue what had been going down for the past two weeks. When I checked on my phone, I saw that Slater Doyle had been murdered. I thought I recognized him as the guy in my video and sure enough …” Dustin rubbed his chin stubble. “As part of my research I was at a lot of the CPG meetings. So was Bette Stevens, so identifying her was no problem. Anyway, I decided to talk to Milo about how to handle this.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“Because Milo’s a cool guy. I trust him and I knew I could count on him to do the right thing until I got some sleep. Lame, eh?”
Dustin’s young face was grey with weariness. “Not lame,” I said. “Send me the video, but please don’t do anything else with it. I’ll get it to the police. The authorities will want to talk to you, but I think tomorrow will be fine. Just leave your contact information with me and I’ll pass it on.”
As soon as the door closed on Dustin, I called Zack and told him about the video. When I finished, Zack was all business. “Send it to Debbie. Let her handle it. You have enough on your plate.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I said. “Zack, before I do anything, we need to talk.”
I could feel the concern in his voice. “Is everybody okay?”
“Everybody’s fine.”
“Then whatever it is, we’ll handle it. I can be home in thirty minutes. Let’s order in pizza and watch a movie until the results come in.”
It was Taylor’s turn to choose a pizza, so we were having the all-dressed vegetarian from the Copper Kettle. Zack was a meat man. The fact that he never once bristled at Taylor’s choice always struck me as a mark of his love.
We took our drinks out to the terrace. The sky was rain-washed and blue, and the air was soft. We sipped our martinis and Zack raised an eyebrow. “Ready to talk?”
“I am, but I want you to listen like a lawyer. I need your opinion on whether I’ve got enough evidence, for lack of a better word, to take to Debbie.”
Zack cocked his head. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”
“This morning after the press conference, Bette Stevens called Mansell. I could see he was upset and when I asked what the problem was, he said Bette was furious because you hadn’t stepped in to stop the personal questions directed at him. Mansell understood why you didn’t interfere. He and I talked a little about overprotective siblings, then he said goodbye and started to leave. After he’d taken a few steps, he turned back and told me that you and I should stay away from Bette for a while because she can be ‘erratic.’
“When I went to the Noodle House to work, Mansell’s words stayed with me, and I stitched together a scenario. There are holes in the storyline, but I think it hangs together.”
Zack’s smile was encouraging. “Go on,” he said.
“I think Bette Stevens is at the centre of everything, starting with Colin Brokenshire’s death. I believe that, contrary to George Sawchuk’s advice, Colin went to Bette and told her he was marrying Lee, and I think that Bette was driving the truck that killed Colin and that she killed him intentionally.”
“But Mansell took responsibility.”
“He did, and Mansell’s guilt about what he did ruined his life. I think Bette’s hatred for Lee grew over the years, but she knew that to protect Mansell and herself, she had to control it. Then Lee agreed to marry Bobby, and Bette lost it.
“She told Slater that when Lee was seventeen years old she’d initiated a sexual relationship with her guardian because she wanted the Brokenshire farm. That was what Slater alluded to when he called Lee ‘St. Lee of Assisi’ the day he almost ran me over after the CPG meeting. Bette had stayed close to Lee during the years after Colin died, and she would have known about the men in Lee’s life, including Simon. Quinn Donnelly would have told her sister-in-law about Lee’s affair with her dissertation adviser, and that would have fuelled the fire.
“At Peter and Maisie’s wedding, over a hundred people saw Simon sitting in the yellow canoe throughout the wedding and reception. He was clearly disturbed. When Lee’s birds were poisoned, Bette assumed Simon was guilty. She had found the perfect scapegoat for her own crime.
“After Lee’s death, Bette needed an alibi, and when she overheard me asking Quinn where she went after she left the office on the day she was supposed to meet me, Bette jumped in. Quinn seemed confused when she heard Bette’s story about the sciatica attack. At first, I thought Bette was protecting her sister-in-law, but if she was creating an alibi for herself, Bette was also giving Quinn a weapon.
“And when the balance shifted to the Y
es side after Lee’s death, Quinn Donnelly knew the only way to redress the balance was through an event as dramatic as Lee’s murder. Slater was desperate. He proposed the abduction. Quinn approached Bette about helping Slater abduct his daughter. Bette refused, but Mansell had told his wife what had really happened to Colin, and Quinn was beginning to suspect that Bette was guilty of Lee’s murder too. When Quinn threatened to go to the police, Bette couldn’t refuse.
“After I showed Slater the second picture of his daughter, he contacted Bette, saying that he would go to the police if she didn’t return Bridie. To protect herself from repercussions from Quinn, Bette moved Bridie to a new hiding place. The video Dustin took recorded the moment when Bette, seeming to capitulate, gave Slater the keys to the farmhouse where Bridie had initially been held. When Slater arrived at the house, she shot him.”
As I’d spun my tale, Zack’s dark eyes had been coolly analytical. When I finished, he shook his head. “It’s a compelling argument, Jo, and for what it’s worth, I think you’re probably right, but it’s not enough. Everything’s based on premises that could be false. A lawyer like me could shoot holes in this so fast the Crown wouldn’t have time to duck. That said, the video is valuable. It shows that just before his death, Slater Doyle met with Bette Stevens. It gives the police an angle they didn’t have before. They haven’t looked into Bette Stevens’s activities at all. Her connection with all this seemed tangential. This video proves it wasn’t, but, Jo, you have to send it to Debbie immediately. She’ll have questions she wants answered right away. I’ll try to stave her off. Until the final vote is in, we have to deal with the referendum. I think she’ll agree to meet us here tomorrow morning. You can tell her your theory then.”
“Holes and all?” I said.
“Holes and all,” Zack said. “You’ve raised a lot of points that are worth pursuing. Bette will have no reason to suspect the authorities are onto her, so that will give the Regina police and the RCMP a head start.”
When the polls closed, I exhaled. It was finally over. Milo, Zack, Taylor, and I watched the results at Margot’s. Lexi and Kai were asleep, so the sound of the TV was kept low. Our mood, too, was muted. The results seesawed all evening, but in the end the city voted Yes. We shared hugs and handshakes, but we were far from jubilant. The referendum had inflicted a devastating toll. Our victory was Pyrrhic, and we knew it.
We’d planned a rally, but after Piper’s confession, I had cancelled the venue we’d rented and we had announced that when the results were in, Zack would make a statement at City Hall. Milo was taking his Harley, so Zack and I drove to City Hall alone and in silence.
All the media outlets had sent their second stringers, and Zack’s statement was brief. He praised the people’s wisdom, thanking those who’d endorsed him, especially Warren Weber and Lydia Mah and the Chamber of Commerce, and promised that, as it had been since he was sworn in as mayor, everything the executive director of City Planning and Development did would be absolutely transparent. He also announced that David Christopher would continue with his post. Zack praised Christopher for coming out of retirement, for doing exemplary work during the transition period from the Ridgeway to the Shreve administration, and for his office’s fair and balanced policy that informed the new bylaws.
After Zack finished, the media had questions. As I listened, the accumulated weight of the past month hit me and I began to cry. Milo and I were standing by the door. He put his arm around my shoulders and led me into the deserted hallway.
“It wasn’t worth it,” I said.
“It will be,” Milo whispered, and then he stroked my hair and murmured reassurances till I was calm enough to go back inside.
The next morning when I got back from my run, Debbie and Zack were sitting in the kitchen having coffee. I poured myself a glass of juice and joined them. Debbie’s phone was on the table in front of her. “I’ve looked at this video a dozen times,” she said. “Zack says you got it from one of your volunteers.”
“His name’s Dustin Kovac,” I said. “He brought it to the Noodle House late yesterday afternoon. I should have sent you Dustin’s contact information last night, but I honestly didn’t think you’d have much luck with him until he got some sleep. He’d just come back from his grandfather’s funeral in Belgrade and he was jet-lagged.”
Debbie checked her watch. “He’s probably still sleeping. I can wait a couple of hours. I already have every frame of this video memorized.” She picked up her phone and turned her eyes to the screen. “Bette takes out the envelope, puts it on the hood of Doyle’s car, writes something, and then hands the envelope to Doyle,” she said. “End of transaction.” Debbie shifted her eyes from the screen back to us. “Doyle had the key to the padlock with him,” she said. “But no envelope. We’re still looking for that.
“There were footprints in the dirt outside the cabin,” she continued. “Someone tried to scuff over them, but whoever did the scuffing must have been rushed. You know that Aesop fable about the lion and the fox? The lion invites all the animals into his den to pay their respects. When the lion asks the fox why he’s the only one hanging back, the fox says, ‘I see many hoof marks going in, I see none coming out.’ Anyway, despite our suspect’s attempt to obliterate the footprints, the RCMP was able to determine that two people went into the cabin that night but only one came out. The one who came out was wearing western boots. Not unusual around here, but I notice that in this video Bette Stevens is wearing western boots.”
“I’ve seen those boots, and I imagine they were specially made for Bette.” I said. “When I asked her where she got them, Bette said they were a gift. My guess is they were from Colin Brokenshire.”
Debbie frowned. “We knew they had a relationship, but it was so far in the past, we didn’t pursue it.” She rose to leave. “Maybe we should.”
I motioned her to sit down again. “I agree,” I said. “Deb, there’s more. This is all conjecture, but Zack and I both think there might be something here.”
As I laid out my theories, Deb’s pen never stopped moving. When I finished, she looked up at me. “I don’t want Bette Stevens to know we’re digging around. Anyone I talk to will have to be discreet. Any suggestions?”
I gave Debbie George Sawchuk’s contact information and questions he might be able to help with. Debbie took her mug to the sink and rinsed it. “I’ll be in touch,” she said. “Are you going to be around?”
“We’re planning to go to the lake after Taylor gets home from school tomorrow,” Zack said. “But until then, we’ll be in the city.”
“As long as I can get in touch,” Debbie said. “Joanne, thanks for this. I’ve been banging my head against the wall. A fresh perspective will help. It’s time to start nailing down evidence.”
After I’d showered and eaten, I called Michael Goetz and told him we’d be at the lake by dinnertime the next day. No one would be using our family’s extra cottage so he and Bridie were welcome to stay there. His relief was obvious. “This means a great deal to us, Joanne. Bridie’s not talking yet, but she’s starting to engage more, and I don’t want to risk the progress she’s made. I know it’s late to look for a rental, but I’m hoping we can find a place on the lake for the summer. Money’s not a problem, so if you hear of anything, please let me know. I’m trying to keep a low profile, but Simon Weber has been asking around for me, and he put up a notice in the Point Store, so I have some feelers out.”
“I’m glad you and Simon are getting acquainted.”
Michael laughed. “Simon and me and Bridie and Old Yeller.”
“I take it Old Yeller is a dog.”
“He is. Apparently he showed up at the Webers’s cottage last week, and he’s appointed himself Simon’s sidekick. He’s a golden lab crossed with something very large. Simon was a fan of the movie Old Yeller, hence the name. Simon’s Old Yeller loves the canoe and he loves to chase sticks. The only time Bridie smiles is when she’s with that dog.”
“Animals are t
he best therapy,” I said. “We’ll see you around five tomorrow night.”
“We’ve restocked the groceries, so no need to shop.”
“You didn’t have to do that, but thanks. Give Old Yeller a head scratch for me.”
I spent the morning at the Noodle House cleaning up the detritus of the referendum campaign. It was mindless but necessary work. Around half past ten, Milo came by. “I knew you’d be here,” he said, and he began boxing up unused brochures. He turned on the classic rock station and we worked in companionable silence for an hour. Zack called at 11:45. “Are you free for lunch? It’s liver and onions day.”
“Sounds tempting,” I said. “But I’m at the Noodle House clearing out referendum stuff and I’m making good time. I think I’ll just stick with it.”
“Want me to call somebody to go over there and help you?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “Milo’s here.”
For a moment there was silence. “There’s a picture of you two that’s getting some serious retweeting,”
“Of Milo and me?”
“Yeah. Somebody took it last night. You might want to check it out.”
“I will. Thanks for the lunch invitation. Next week for sure.”
“Yeah, next week for sure,” Zack said, and our call ended.
“Zack says we should check out Twitter. Apparently there’s a picture of us.”
The picture was taken after Milo led me out of the room because I was crying. We had our arms around each other and he appeared to be kissing my hair. The caption read “Joanne Shreve and her very young assistant, Milo O’Brien, doing a victory lap.”
“Why would anyone put that on Twitter?” I said.
“Why does anyone put anything on Twitter?” Milo said. “To strut or to make trouble. It’ll be something else tomorrow. Do you think you should call the big man?”
