by Gail Bowen
“I’ll talk to him about it later.”
“Fair enough. Hey, do you want to get something to eat?”
“Are you actually going to put food in your mouth?”
“Yeah. Once in a while I go crazy. A new deli just opened on Scarth Street. Let’s finish off here and grab a sandwich.”
Cleaning out the Noodle House was dusty work, and when I got home, I had my second shower of the day, looked at my bed, and gave into temptation. I awoke from my nap refreshed and ready for action. Remembering Debbie’s parting words, I reached for my phone. It really was time to start nailing down evidence. I punched in Peter’s cell number, and he answered on the first ring.
“Perfect timing,” he said. “I was just going to call you, Mum. I could use some help. Sixteen Narragansett turkey poults are going to be delivered within the half-hour. They’re two days old and they need to be hand-fed both food and water as soon as we receive them. Apparently, they can’t learn to do that by themselves. I’ve got a water-trough brooder set up, but I’m nervous. Colin’s notes are reassuring, but the literature says that turkey poults can die off easily.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” I said. When I started for the door, Esme was right behind me. “Okay, you can come,” I said. “But you have to stay in the house. I don’t think the turkey poults are ready for you yet.”
The poults beat me to the farm but not by much. They were already squirming to get out of their box when I arrived. I put Esme in the house, and then washed my hands and joined my son. We each picked up a poult, dipped its beak in water and then in food, placed it in the brooder, and then picked up another poult and repeated the process. By the time we’d fed and watered everybody, the poults were running between the waterer and the feeder themselves.
Peter and I gave each other self-congratulatory smiles. “They’re quick learners,” I said.
“In his notes, Colin said they would be,” Peter said. “I never would have tried heritage turkeys if he hadn’t been so reassuring. Mum, I know I’ve said this before, but Colin’s records of what he did and how he did it are so detailed I feel as if he’s here with me guiding me every step of the way. Lee’s notes are the same. I’m in good hands.”
“Actually, Colin’s notes are what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. “Maisie told me that the notes are not simply an account of Colin’s farming practises, that he also includes comments about the events of his day. I think the last entries Colin made before he died might shed light on everything that’s happened.” As I ran through my suspicions about Bette Stevens’s involvement in the tragedies that had begun with Colin’s death, Peter listened intently, his expression shifting from uncertainty to disbelief and, finally, to horror.
“Let’s go take a look,” Peter said. He gave the poults a final check and we went into the house. After we washed up, I followed my son into the office on the main floor. The day I’d come out to help sort through Lee’s things, Maisie had pointed out the leather-bound notebooks, one a year, lined up on the bookshelves. The black ones were Colin’s; the dark-green were Lee’s. Peter took down the black notebook marked 2004 and flipped through the pages until he found what we needed and passed the notebook to me. Colin’s handwriting was small, neat, and cautious, but I could feel the fear in the words he wrote. “Telling B was a mistake. I’ve never seen such hurt and such rage. L and I will have to take a break from her.”
And then nothing but blank pages.
Lee began her own notes in a fresh notebook on January 1, 2005.
I put the 2004 notebook in my bag. “Lee obviously never read this,” I said. “I guess she couldn’t bring herself to look at Colin’s last entry.”
Peter put his hands on his knees and dropped his head. “Bette was like a mother to Maisie and Lee. How could she have done this? First Colin and then Lee. Colin died eleven years ago. Why would she kill Lee now?”
“Two days before Lee was killed, she told Bobby she was finally ready to settle down with him. He was planning to tell Bette later that night.”
“And Bette found the possibility of her son marrying the woman Colin Brokenshire loved insupportable,” Peter said. “Mum, I don’t even want to think about what this will do to Maisie. She’s already torn apart by the idea that the last face Lee saw was the face of her murderer. Learning that Lee died aware that Bette Stevens hated her enough to kill her …” He rubbed his temples. “And Bobby – my God, what will this do to him?”
As Peter walked me to the door of the farmhouse, Bette Stevens’s red truck pulled into the driveway. We both panicked. “What do we do?” he said.
“I guess just carry on as usual,” I said.
“I don’t think I can,” Peter said.
Bette got out of her truck and reached back in and pulled out a cooler. “We’re going to have to,” I said. From the first time I’d seen Esme’s reaction to the red truck, I’d been curious. This was the chance to get answers. “Pete, go out and open the gate so Bette can get into the yard with the cooler. Make sure you shut the gate behind you. I’m going to let Esme out.”
“Why?”
“Just do what I said.”
Peter looked hesitant as he greeted Bette and opened the gate. She entered the yard, and he shut the gate behind her. Esme had found a cool place in the office and she was sleeping. I picked up her leash and called her. After she’d loped up the hall, I clipped her leash to her collar and, holding on tightly, I opened the front door. As soon as she saw Bette, Esme began to growl, pulling at the leash with such power that I could barely hang on as she dragged me towards Bette. Seeing the dog, Bette dropped the cooler and made for the gate, opening it and quickly pushing it shut behind her. Esme was a gentle dog, but the moment Bette started running, she seemed to become possessed. Yanking free of me, snarling and teeth bared, she hurled herself at the gate. Bette wasted no time getting away. As the red truck peeled down the driveway, Esme ran the length of the fence towards the road. She was still snarling and growling in the direction where Bette’s truck had disappeared when Peter and I went to get her.
She was panting heavily and her eyes were wild. Peter and I both knelt to pat her. When, finally, she realized the threat had disappeared, she relaxed. Peter and I were breathing hard. “That was terrifying,” he said. “I’ve been with that dog hundreds of times. I’ve never seen her like that.”
“That’s because Esme’s never been that close to the person who murdered her owner,” I said.
When Peter and I walked into the kitchen with Esme, my phone was ringing. I took it out of my bag and answered. Mansell’s speaking voice was usually rich and authoritative, but that afternoon his voice was thin and uncertain. “Bette just called, screaming at me, saying that I have to kill your dog. She was hysterical. She told me you’re at the Brokenshire farm, and that I have to go there and kill your dog because the dog saw her in the barn that day.” His voice broke, and I wasn’t sure if he’d be able to continue. But I knew he had a message to deliver, so for what seemed like an endless moment, I waited. Finally he pulled himself together. “Joanne, she killed Lee,” he said. “First she killed Colin and then she killed Lee.”
CHAPTER
19
As soon as my call from Mansell ended, I phoned Debbie and gave her a complete report. Bette had given her brother serious cause to believe that she’d killed Lee, and Mansell had told me that Bette had killed Colin Brokenshire. Debbie said she’d talk to Mansell personally and that since the investigation into Bette Stevens’s activities would be in Carl Lovitz’s jurisdiction, she’d be in touch with him. Before she hung up, she said, “The dominoes are falling, Joanne. I hope to God it’s almost over.”
When I hung up, Peter’s expression was bleak. “I can’t get my head around any of this,” he said.
“Neither can I, and we still don’t know the whole story. Don’t say anything to anybody, not even Maisie, until we know exactly what’s going on.”
Two hours later, Zack and I were
sitting on the terrace at the condo. I’d told him everything that transpired that afternoon at the Brokenshire farm. The magnitude of what had happened and of what lay ahead overwhelmed us both. But there was one problem left that had to be discussed.
“After I talked to you, I found the picture of Milo and me on Twitter,” I said.
Zack’s voice was tender. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Jo.”
“I know I don’t, and that’s why I want to explain. Zack, from the day Maisie and Pete were married, I felt that I was swimming for the surface. I managed to stay afloat but only barely. When the results came in, I fell apart and Milo took me out in the hall to give me a chance to pull myself together.”
“I wish I’d been there,” Zack said. “But I wasn’t, and I’m glad Milo was. It’s that simple, Jo. I love you, and if you need something I can’t give you, I’m grateful that there’s someone else who can.”
It’s not easy for a man in a wheelchair and an able-bodied woman to manage a satisfying embrace, but Zack and I had plenty of practice. When the entrance buzzer sounded and we finally broke apart, I knew we both felt well and truly loved. Our visitor was Debbie Haczkewicz. We met her at the front door, and she was clearly keyed up.
“Bette Stevens is dead,” she said.
Zack leaned forward. “What happened?”
“Carl and his officers went to the Stevens’s farm to question Bette. There was no answer when they knocked. The front door was locked, so the officers went around the back. Bette Stevens was lying face down on the grass beside a pond. According to Carl, the scene was surreal. Bette Stevens had shot herself in the base of the head – the never-fail shot. She knew what she was doing. Carl suspects the gun she used will match the one used on Lee and Slater. But what grabbed everyone’s attention was the fact that there were six swans gliding around the pond. Carl Lovitz says it was the first case for one of his officers, and the young woman couldn’t stop talking about the birds. She couldn’t believe there were swans in Saskatchewan.”
“I’ve seen them,” I said. “Bette told me that after her husband died she needed a reminder that there was beauty in the world, so she bought the swans.”
Debbie shook her head with the impatience of a swimmer getting water out of her ear. “I hate it when we discover that a monster has a heart. And Bette Stevens was loved. Mansell was shattered when he heard she was dead. He didn’t want her to be alone so he went straight to the farm. Incidentally, Carl Lovitz said Bette was wearing her western boots when she pulled the trigger.”
“So she died with her boots on,” Zack said, and he looked as sick as I felt.
Debbie and Inspector Carl Lovitz had agreed to make a statement in time for the late news, so Debbie had to go directly back to her office. When she left, Zack turned his chair towards the door. “We have to tell Peter and Maisie what’s happened before the story hits the media.”
Normally, it was a thirty-minute drive from the city to the farm. That night Zack made it in twenty. When Peter opened the door, I knew that a bad situation was about to get worse. Bobby Stevens was sitting at the dinner table and he and Maisie were clearly pleased to see us. “Join us,” Bobby said. “These cabbage rolls are excellent. Of course, all cabbage rolls are excellent, but we also have beer.”
Maisie came over and hugged us both. “Eat now while the freezer’s still full of casseroles because when they’re gone, I’m the chef, and nobody’s looking forward to that.”
She looked from my face to Zack’s, and her smile vanished. “Something’s happened,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, but I couldn’t find the words to go on.
Zack wheeled closer to Bobby and covered Bobby’s hand with his own. “There’s bad news,” he said. “Your mother died this afternoon.”
Bobby leapt to his feet. “That can’t be true,” he said. “I saw Mum at lunch. She was fine.”
“Was there an accident?” Peter said.
“It was suicide,” Zack said softly. Maisie moved swiftly to Bobby’s side.
Bobby brushed his wrist against his mouth. “My mother would never take her own life,” he said. “This has to be a mistake.”
“There’s no mistake,” Zack said. “The RCMP had evidence that Bette was involved in Lee’s murder. They came to your farm with a search warrant, but your mother had already taken the matter into her own hands.”
Bobby always had a high colour. Now the blood drained from his face. “Why would she kill Lee?”
“I don’t know,” Zack said. “Maybe we should all sit down.”
Peter poured a glass of ginger ale for Maisie, then took a bottle of Crown Royal Black from the cupboard and poured the rest of us stiff drinks. Bobby drained his Crown Royal in a single gulp and poured himself another. “Tell me,” he said.
Zack started with the death of Colin Brokenshire and from there he left nothing out. As he talked, Maisie, Peter, and Bobby were as motionless as mannequins. The bottle of Crown Royal sat in the centre of the table beside the casserole of cabbage rolls, both now untouched. A political friend of mine used to say, “There’s no problem that can’t be solved at a kitchen table over a bottle of rye and a plate of cabbage rolls.” Until that night, I had believed my friend was right.
When Zack finished, he said, “Do any of you need to know more?”
As he looked at Maisie, Bobby’s face was lifeless. “My mother took everything from you. What can I do?”
Maisie put her arms around him. “Be our friend,” she said. Once again, the world as she knew it had been shattered, but Maisie’s voice was firm. “Bobby, this has to end somewhere. Pete and I need you, and you need us. Stay close, and we’ll get through this.”
Bobby nodded, but his eyes were unfocused, fixed on a horror the rest of us couldn’t comprehend. His phone rang. He looked at the call display. “It’s my Uncle Mansell,” he said. He picked up, listened, then said he’d be there soon and hung up.
“Uncle Mansell is at the main house. There are police everywhere. He didn’t want my mother to be alone with them. Neither do I.” Bobby began clearing the table.
“You don’t have to do that,” Maisie said.
“My mother brought me up right,” he said, and as the irony of his words struck him, he laughed mirthlessly. Bobby waved off our offers of help and continued scraping and rinsing the plates and cutlery. When all the dishes were submerged in a pan of hot, soapy water, Bobby headed for the door, his movements as stiffly mechanical as those of an automaton. “Thanks for supper, Maisie,” he said. “I’m going home now.”
Maisie, Peter, Zack, and I glanced at one another. “You shouldn’t have to drive,” Zack said. “Joanne and I will take you.”
I went to our son and daughter-in-law. “Are you two okay?”
Peter pulled Maisie close. “We will be,” he said.
Bobby was silent during the ten-minute drive to his family farm. We were two days away from the longest day of the year. The sun wouldn’t set until after nine, but the sky was overcast, so the police had floodlit the ranch house, yard, and outbuildings. Officers darted from the house and grounds to the vehicles holding the paraphernalia that would allow them to collect and preserve evidence. With luck, they would be able to establish that Bette Stevens had deliberately driven over the man who had spurned her, and then waited eleven years to kill the woman Colin Brokenshire loved.
The driveway was blocked off. We waited until an officer came over to ask us our business. Bobby showed his identification and said he wanted to be with his uncle.
“How long till this is over?” he said.
As she looked at Bobby, the young officer’s eyes were wide, and I wondered if she’d been the officer who couldn’t believe there were swans in Saskatchewan. “Our part – not long,” she said. “A few days at the most. After that, it’s anyone’s guess.”
Bobby’s laugh was derisive. “My money’s on ‘never,’ ” he said.
He shook hands with Zack and me and walked with
the officer up the driveway – a lonely man: his past in tatters; his present unendurable; his future uncertain.
The next day when Taylor and I picked Zack up at City Hall for the drive to Lawyers’ Bay, I sent Taylor off to look at some new art the city had purchased to hang in Henry Baker Hall, the room where council met, and then I went straight to get Zack. Trial lawyers are familiar with the dark workings of the human heart, but the horror of what Bette Stevens had done stunned Zack, and the late-afternoon sun pouring into his office showed a man badly in need of a weekend’s respite. As soon as we were in the car, Zack turned on Bill Evans. As we had done many time before, we counted on the singing, melodic lines of Bill Evans’s piano to quiet our minds and soothe our nerves.
Michael, Bridie, and Zenaya had moved down to the guest cottage. Zack and I had agreed to let Michael choose when he wanted to meet up with us. He came over after lunch on Saturday. He was tanned but still tense and preoccupied.
Zack motioned him to join us in the living room.
“Can we get you anything?” I said.
Michael had perched on the edge of his chair as if he might be called away at any minute. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m fine. I just wanted to check in.”
“Glad you did,” Zack said. “How are you and Bridie doing?”
Michael’s brow creased. “I’m hopeful, but it’s going to be a long haul. Bridie’s made some progress. The night terrors seem to have stopped. She still won’t sleep alone, but as long as she can curl up with Zenaya, she sleeps soundly. She’s eating well. She’s still not talking, but she’s trying to communicate through drawing. Kids who’ve suffered traumas use images much more readily than words; actually, adults who have been badly traumatized do too. Images, symbols, are the way the intuitive right side of the brain moves in to contain unbearable emotion when the cognitive left side shuts down. With Bridie, it’s always the same thing: she draws hearts in a kind of pattern that I can’t figure out. I encourage her, but it’s as if she can’t go forward until I understand what the hearts mean.”
