by Gail Bowen
Alex was sitting in one of the rockers on the front porch. I hadn’t seen him since Christmas. He’d been involved in a difficult case then, and I’d chalked up his pallor and weight loss to overwork and stress. But the man in the rocker was suffering from something beyond too many late nights and too much caffeine. His eyes were closed and his head was resting against the wicker back of the rocker. His lethargy was a shock. Alex had always been driven, a dynamo who could grab a few hours’ sleep and function well. That morning, he looked as if something had hollowed him out. I called his name.
When he heard my voice, he opened his eyes and then raised his head slowly. “You’re okay?” he said.
“I will be,” I said.
“And Angus?”
“He’s remarkably resilient – as you well know.”
“Jo, how did you and the kids get mixed up with these people?”
“I explained that to the officers we talked to last night. We’re renting a cottage here for the summer.”
“And your landlord is Kevin Hynd, the hippie lawyer.”
“I see him more as Kevin Hynd, the loyal friend,” I said.
Alex flushed. The reference to loyalty had been a zinger. We’d broken up when Alex had become involved with another woman. Despite the hit, he soldiered on. “The storefront law business must be booming if Mr. Hynd was able to take off for parts unknown,” he said.
“They’re known to me,” I said. “Kevin is in Tibet, half a world away from Lawyers’ Bay. He’s not connected with this.”
“Maybe not,” Alex said. “But patterns are always provocative. It would be interesting to know why Mr. Hynd keeps walking away – first from a partnership in a highly lucrative law practice, now from his storefront office. Something seems to be making him uneasy.”
“This conversation is making me uneasy,” I said. “If you have questions about last night, I’ll answer them. Otherwise, I’m going inside to take a shower.”
“Okay, let’s get started.” Surprisingly, Alex made no movement to get his notebook and pen. “Something in your statement caught my eye. You said you were sleeping out here last night. Any special reason?”
“It was hot. It had been a full day, and my mind was racing. Monkey thoughts, my yoga instructor would say.”
“You’re still going to yoga?”
“Inner peace takes time.”
Alex smiled. “You seem to be moving in the right direction. You look good, Jo.”
The air between us was heavy with things unsaid, but I was in no mood for a trip down memory lane. “We were talking about the accident,” I said.
The warmth went out of Alex’s face. “All right, then why don’t you take another run at your story? Somehow, it just doesn’t feel right to me.”
My account of what had happened the night before was truthful and, except on one point, meticulous. As I had in my first interview, I hurried over my conversation with Chris Altieri. When Alex didn’t challenge me, I thought I was home free. I was wrong. He might not have been super-cop any more, but he hadn’t lost his touch. When I’d finished, he took out his notebook and uncapped his pen. “Interesting,” he said. “Now why don’t you tell me everything you know about Christopher Altieri.”
“There’s not much to tell,” I said. “Twenty-four hours ago Christopher Altieri was just a name to me – there must have been dozens of people at that party who knew him better than I did.”
“You’re probably right, but so far we’re coming up empty. The peripheral people – clients, friends, other cottagers - are anxious to help, but all they say is that he was a great guy. The people who should have known him best – the juniors in the law firm, the partners and their spouses – aren’t saying anything. That leaves you.”
“And I have nothing to say.”
The life had come back into Alex’s obsidian eyes. “I think you do,” he said. “I hear you had a one-on-one talk with Mr. Altieri last night.”
“You’d be wrong to attach any significance to that,” I said.
“Would I?” Alex made no attempt to hide his skepticism.
“It was a party. Lots of people were having one-on-one talks.”
“But you were the only person who had a one-on-one talk with the man who was about to die.”
“Alex, if you’re asking me whether Chris told me anything that explains the way his life ended, the answer is no. Nothing else is germane. Why don’t you just let him rest in peace?”
For an awkwardly long time, we held one another’s gaze. Alex looked away first. “I wish to God I could let this rest in peace, Jo, but I can’t.”
In all our time together, I had never seen Alex appear frightened, but in that moment I knew there was something he was afraid of. “Alex, what’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked to the window and turned his back to me. “When I was growing up, I was out on this lake every day, swimming, canoeing, fishing, playing hockey. I knew it the way I knew my own body. These people have changed everything – cleared away all the brush, gouged the hills, bulldozed paths, transplanted the grasses that were here to places where they thought some indigenous grass might make them look culturally sensitive. Everything’s for appearance. This land means nothing to them. It’s just another playground.”
Suddenly I was furious. “Alex, you sound like a retread from the sixties. You hated living at Standing Buffalo. You left as soon as you could. You went to police college in the city, you got a job, and as far as I could see you never looked back.”
“Maybe that was a mistake,” he said softly. “Maybe we all would have been better off just staying where we were.”
“Who is this we you’re talking about? You’ve never divided the world into them and us before.”
“Maybe that was a mistake too.”
“Were you and I a mistake?”
Pain knifed his face, but he didn’t offer any reassurance that our three years together had been worthwhile. “Just be careful, Jo. You may be new to Lawyers’ Bay, but I’m not. I know these people. If anything comes up, you’ve got my number.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got your number.” The bitterness in my voice surprised even me.
A cloud of dust almost obscured the silver Audi as it sped up the road, but I was still able to see that, instead of heading straight for the highway, the car turned into the Falconers’ driveway. I had a pretty good idea about the purpose of Alex’s visit. Lily Falconer had been born and raised on the Standing Buffalo reserve too. Alex’s epiphany that blood was thicker than water had clearly prompted him to remind Lily that, in this world, there were two camps, and the wise stayed with their own kind.
Showered, splashed with my Mother’s Day extravagance of Bulgari, and wearing a polo shirt, slacks, and sandals, I arrived at Coffee Row just as the festivities were about to begin. There was a buzz when I arrived. I had, after all, been part of the drama the night before, but my star was eclipsed the moment Leah poured the ceremonial first cup of java and presented it to Stan Gardiner. No doubt about it, this was a big event. The photographer from the town paper was there, so were the reeve of the municipality and the three candidates contesting the riding in the next provincial election. Clearly, the combination of free food, bad coffee, and a homegrown tragedy was impossible to resist. Stan had made certain that his guests were seated at the picnic tables intended for them. Latecomers had to make do with sitting on the grass. No one – not even the sleek young matrons – seemed to mind. The risk of a grass stain was a small price to pay for inside dope on the tragedy.
I’d planned to help serve the food, but a gaggle of pre-teen girls beat me to the punch. Cheerful as bees, they glided among the tables in their bright summer shorts and tops, offering sandwiches and cookies, teasing and getting teased. I was less merry. Even bologna and mustard on Wonder Bread couldn’t banish the images of the night before. There was something else. Out of deference to my involvement in the tragedy, a sprightly gent with a walker had offe
red me his place at the picnic table nearest Stan and his friends. Eavesdropping was unavoidable, and what I heard did not improve my mood. The situation was as sizzling as the day, and as they hosed one another down with their theories, Stan Gardiner and his friends were gleeful.
Stan himself opened the discussion. “A lot goes on down there at Lawyers’ Bay that they don’t want people to know about. Why else would they have put up them gates out front?”
The question may have been rhetorical, but that didn’t stop the man on Stan’s left. After a meditative pull on his Player’s Plain, he floated an answer. “Sex, drugs, and rock and roll – that’s what they’re into.” He sucked back another lungful, cackled himself into a coughing fit, wiped his mouth smartly on his hanky, and continued. “Key parties, wife swapping, cocaine – they do it all.”
The man across from him made a moue of disgust. “Jesus, Morris, if you don’t cut out cigarettes, they’re gonna kill you.”
“I’m eighty-five, George,” the smoker said reasonably. “Something’s going to kill me.”
“Better sooner than later,” George said. “When you spew garbage like that about a decent man you make me impatient. That Chris Altieri was a nice young fella. When he was at the lake, he used to drive into town to Mass every day – real religious.”
Morris was unconvinced. “You don’t go to church every goddamned day unless you’ve done something wrong. If that Altieri guy was such a choirboy, why was that Indian cop sniffin’ around here all winter?”
George was judicious. “A cop isn’t just a cop. He’s a man, too. And a man can have reasons to sniff around that don’t have anything to do with his job.”
“I get your meaning,” Morris said.
“So do I,” Stan Gardiner said. “And enough’s enough. There are women and children around. One thing I know, nobody sniffed around when Harriet Hynd was alive. She was a lady through and through, and Russell Hynd was a gentleman. No gates on the bay in their time.”
Coffee Row was still on full perk when I left. My cottage, empty of children and responsibilities, was mercifully stimulant free, and I welcomed the tranquillity. I was bone-tired, and I needed to be alone. As they always seemed to, the members of the Winners’ Circle had anticipated my needs. Taylor was one of the delights of my life, but that day I was relieved that Rose Lavallee had taken my daughter under her wing. Rose was so tiny that she could have bought her clothes in the pre-teen department at the Bay, but there was no doubting her common sense and reliability. I made myself a cup of Earl Grey, picked up Harriet’s copy of To the Lighthouse, and read until the mid-afternoon shadows danced across the ceiling. By the time the kitchen clock struck three, I had wearied of the grace with which Mrs. Ramsay presided over the seashells, bird skulls, and conflicting needs of her sons, daughters, and friends. I wanted a protagonist in my own image, a woman who was grateful none of her kids were around to watch her sulk over an old lover who apparently had wasted no time before he began sniffing around for a shiny new replacement after he’d dumped her.
Annoyed by my self-pity, I put Mrs. Ramsay back on the shelf and went to the kitchen to check out the possibilities for dinner. Rose was bringing Taylor home at three-thirty. Knowing my daughter, she’d be keen for a swim. If I got dinner started, she and I could take our time at the beach.
I might have been unlucky in love, but I was lucky in the kitchen. I’d been at the farmers’ market the day before and picked up a basket of tomatoes, some fresh basil, and a block of Taylor’s favourite white cheddar. I had a loaf of wild-rice bread in the freezer. Taylor loved smoked tomato soup. A mug of soup and a grilled cheese sandwich would be just the ticket after we came back from the lake.
I’d just finished chiffonading the basil when Rose and the girls came in. Isobel Wainberg was carrying a Zellers bag from which only the tips of her knitting needles protruded, but Taylor and Gracie were waving their handiwork like flags.
“Look at this,” Taylor said, shoving six inches of a hyacinth scarf towards me. “Isn’t this great? The very first thing I ever knitted. Rose’s sister, Betty, says I took to it like a duck to water.”
Gracie swung her creation from side to side. Her knitting, large-looped and irregular, flopped dispiritedly. She laughed. “Betty says I have many other talents.”
“You do,” Isobel said loyally. “You don’t always worry about doing everything perfectly. That’s a talent.”
“And,” Taylor added, “you can shoot hoops better than Angus. Now, who wants to eat?”
The girls raced to the kitchen, leaving Rose and me behind. “Can I get you something?” I asked. “Some tea or a cold drink?”
Rose looked critically at a loose button on her sundress. “I appreciate the thought,” she said, “but you don’t have to entertain me. I’m happy just to sit.”
“Me too,” I said. “And thanks to you, I got to sit all afternoon. Taylor obviously had a great time.”
Rose snapped off the errant button. “I’ll take care of you when I get home,” she said, popping the button in her pocket. She turned her attention to me. “That girl of yours surprised me today,” she said. “She’s a free spirit, and free spirits are hard to rein in – not that you want to. All the same, it makes it easier for everybody when they find something that they like to do. Your girl really concentrated on her knitting. She’s got an idea that she wants to knit a bedcover made of squares. She drew what she wanted so Betty could help her with the patterns. They were interesting – all different kinds of fish and shells. Your girl has a knack.”
“Taylor’s birth mother was an artist,” I said. “Her name was Sally Love. She was brilliant, and when we were growing up, she was my closest friend. After she died, I adopted Taylor.”
“So the gift was passed down. It isn’t always,” Rose said. She picked up the knitting that Gracie Falconer had abandoned and smiled at the loose, loopy stitches. “You can tell a lot about a person by the way she knits. I taught this one’s mother. From the first day, she never dropped a stitch. She never has.”
We were silent, listening to the laughter drift from the other room. “So you’ve known Lily for a long time.”
“All her life,” Rose said. “We’re from the same reserve.”
“And Alex Kequahtooway?”
Rose’s jaw tightened. “I know him,” she said.
“Were he and Lily friends when she was growing up?”
“On a reserve everybody knows everybody,” Rose said. Her mouth snapped shut like a coin purse. Clearly there’d be no more revelations coming my way today. “Remember that old saying, ‘Curiosity killed the cat’?” she said.
“My grandmother used to tell me that when I was sticking my nose in where it didn’t belong.”
“Well, I’m saying it to you now.” Rose picked up Gracie’s knitting and Isobel’s Zellers bag. “Thanks for the visit. It’s good to get to know new people.”
CHAPTER
3
In the days before the funeral, the partners of Falconer Shreve stayed at the lake, grieving, planning, and cleaving to one another. It was rare to see any of them alone. The weather had turned hot, and Lawyers’ Bay was enveloped by a kind of hazy unease as we waited for the heat to break and for the funeral that would rescue us from the limbo into which Chris Altieri’s death had banished us. Life went on, but there was sadness in the summer air. There was also uncertainty. The police hadn’t yet ruled out the possibility that Chris’s death had been an accident; however, their search for a suicide note had proved fruitless. Without a Rosetta stone to unlock the mystery of why a man who had everything to live for would choose to die, questions persisted, painful as a troubling tooth. Why would a man who loved his friends so deeply leave no explanation for an act that he knew would plunge them into confusion and painful self-examination?
And given that Chris Altieri’s death was a suicide, why were the police investigating the tragedy with such thoroughness? Alex Kequahtooway’s silver Audi was much in evidence. Mo
re than once I saw it turn into Lily Falconer’s driveway. It never turned into mine. On Coffee Row, rumours grew like mushrooms after a three-day rain. Distracted, the people of Lawyers’ Bay went through the motions of life at a summer cottage, and I came to know my neighbours.
Taylor, Gracie, and Isobel had become inseparable, and that meant Rose Lavallee and I were drawn together too. From the moment I met her, I liked and trusted Gracie’s nanny, but Taylor was one of the joys of my middle age and I wasn’t about to miss a summer with her. And so when Rose and the girls went off on adventures, I tagged along, and after her initial surprise, Rose seemed to welcome my presence. When the girls decided they wanted to learn how to dive from the tower, Rose and I took on the task together.
The arrangement worked well. At seventy, Rose had a face that bore the chisel marks of time, but her body was wiry, and what she didn’t know about dealing with young girls wasn’t worth knowing. She was, Taylor confided, very strict about bathing suits. That summer, prepubescent girls who still had trouble keeping track of their retainers were wearing the skimpiest of string bikinis, suits designed to entice with provocative peeks at budding breasts and belly-button rings. My daughter and I had had a stormy exchange on the second floor of the Bay about how much of her was going to be on display that summer. When I saw Gracie and Isobel in their functionally cut navy Spandex one-piece suits, I knew Rose was my kind of woman.
The diving lessons turned out to be a boon for me as well as for the girls. Climbing the tower, testing the spring of the board, then plunging into the dark, inscrutable waters and counting on muscle memory to guide me back into sunlight proved to be surprisingly therapeutic. And Rose was good company: silent unless something needed to be said. Neither of us returned to the subject of Alex, Lily, or the old days at Standing Buffalo. At some level, we both recognized that our friendship was too new and too fragile to withstand a blast from the past.
