by Gail Bowen
“I feel as if I’m in a Fellini movie,” I said.
The inspector smiled and said, “I often have that feeling myself. Anyway, you can walk out of this movie whenever you’re ready.”
I looked at him. I felt as tired and sad as he sounded.
“No, Inspector, I’m afraid you’re wrong. I don’t think I can walk out of this movie. I think there are some things I have to tell you.”
Two hours later, a police car delivered me to the house on Eastlake Avenue. When I went to stand up after my interview with Millar Millard, my legs had turned to rubber. I’d been glad of the ride.
When I walked in the front door, Peter and Angus were home for lunch. They were sitting in front of the TV eating Kraft Dinner. The news of Soren Eames’s murder had become public. When I sat on the floor beside them, the television was showing Eve and me walking across the parking lot of the hospital the morning we drove to Wolf River. I hadn’t realized the network had filmed us, but there we were. Eve, tall and elegant, and me, short and matronly. Mutt and Jeff. There were other pieces of file footage: the funeral, of course, and the dedication of the Charlie Appleby Prayer Centre. There was Soren Eames, wired with excitement, talking passionately and sensitively about the design of the building, then a sweeping shot of the dignitaries sitting in chairs on the hard-packed dirt in front of the centre. The premier was there, looking, as always, boyishly hyperactive (too much sugar, Angus once said knowledgeably), and Lane Appleby, sitting not far from Eve and Andy, then a quick shot of Andy and Soren Eames together at the microphone: two handsome men in young middle age, squinting in the pale, cold sun of an April morning. When everything came out, that shot of Soren and Andy would be on the front page of every newspaper in Canada.
Then pictures of the body being taken out of the cap Centre and loaded into an ambulance. Suddenly, I couldn’t handle it: Soren, blinking in the sunlight, talking about form and function in architecture, and Soren, an anonymous bulk under a red blanket, wrapped in darkness forever. My knees began to tremble again, and I turned off the television, went to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Hennessey’s. I poured myself a generous shot and walked into the kitchen.
As I took the first sip, the phone rang. It was Howard Dowhanuik calling from Toronto. His news was grim. Already the Toronto media were having a field day with Soren’s murder. They’d dug up the Lorscott case, and one of the city TV stations had sent a crew to Port Durham to get Eve’s father’s response to the charges against his daughter. The old man had smashed in the television cameras and chased the reporters off his property. Apparently, Eve was going to be spared nothing.
Howard’s assessment was brutal: “Thanksgiving came early for the shitheads of the press this year. They aren’t going to have to scramble for this one. No, this one is going to jump into their word processors all by itself.”
It seemed as good a time as any to ask my question. “Howard, there’s more here and I think you must know about it.”
“What kind of more, Jo?” His voice on the other end of the line was suddenly wary.
“Andy was a homosexual. He and Soren Eames were lovers.”
There was a sigh. “Jesus, no. I didn’t know that. Not about Andy and Eames.”
I pressed him. “But you did know about Andy.”
Silence.
“You knew, didn’t you? Answer me.” I could hear my voice, shrill and demanding.
Then Howard’s voice, defeated. “Yeah. I knew, Jo.”
“How long? When did you find out?”
“From the beginning, at least from the political beginning. Andy told me the first time I asked him to run for us.”
“Damn it, Howard, why didn’t you tell me?”
There was anger in his voice. “Because, Jo, there was no goddamn reason in the world for you to know. Because it wasn’t any of your goddamn business, any more than it was Andy’s business how often you and Ian got it off in bed. Andy did the right thing by telling me, but it was nobody’s business but his and mine.”
“And Eve’s,” I said meanly.
“Yes, and Eve’s.”
“Howard, did you know any of the men?”
There was a beat of hesitation. “No, I didn’t – not for sure. There was one I saw just for a second, that first year Andy was elected.”
“What was he like?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Jo, it’s been almost twenty years … Tall and thin, I think. I just saw him for a second and he was …”
“He was what, Howard?”
“Naked. He was naked, Joanne. We were in Toronto for a conference. I went to Andy’s hotel room early. While we were talking at the door, the other guy came out of the bathroom. I guess he didn’t hear me at the door.”
“And what happened?”
“I gave Andy hell for not being careful and for balling around, and he said it wasn’t like that – that this guy was ‘the one and only.’ Funny choice of words, but that’s what he said … Jo, I’m sorry I barked at you. This is a hell of a mess. Look, do you want me to come out there? Does Eve have a lawyer?”
“I suggested they call Craig Evanson. He’ll be good with her – gentle. Howard, I’d love for you to come, but really, there’s nothing you could do but hold my hand.”
“Not the worst fate I can think of.”
“The big city’s turning you into a smooth talker.”
“I mean it, Jo.”
“I know you do. You’re a good soul, Howard. Look, I’ll call you if I need you.”
“Don’t wait for that – just call.”
“Okay. Hey, take care of yourself. Stay away from the painted ladies down there.”
“Oh, Jo, I miss you,” and then “shit,” and he hung up. I sat there for a minute wondering. Then I went into the kitchen and ate some of the boys’ leftover Kraft Dinner while I sipped my Hennessey’s. It’s not a bad combination on a day when the world falls apart.
When the phone rang again, I was in the granny flat sorting through files, looking for places where Andy and Soren might have been together or, more to the point, might have been seen together. The voice on the line was male, young and tentative.
“Mrs. Kilbourn, this is Mark Evanson. The memorial service for Soren Eames will be held on Thursday at the CAP Centre, at ten o’clock in the morning.” He hung up.
“Well,” I said to the empty room, “I can wear the outfit I wore to Andy’s funeral. There’ll be a different crowd for this one.” And then I repeated Howard’s farewell expletive and went back to my files.
I should have been able to predict that Rick would come to Soren Eames’s memorial service. The funeral was the climactic coda of the tragedy of the summer, and as his news director said, Rick did have a unique connection with the story. The prospect of his coming was the one small bright spot in the darkness of that day, especially because he was going to stay with us. It made sense. He hated hotels. The granny flat was self-contained, and except for my files and boxes, it was empty. Despite everything, when I hung up after Rick’s call, I felt my spirits lifting. It had been a while since I’d had something to look forward to, someone to get ready for.
He was due on the late afternoon flight on Wednesday, and I woke up that morning with the sense of anticipation that a day filled with small and pleasant errands brings. It was a grey and misty day, cool and magic. The snow that had fallen the morning of my birthday was gone, and it really seemed like harvest time. After breakfast I drove down to the valley for late summer vegetables: carrots, Brussels sprouts, squash, potatoes. There was a stand near the highway selling fruit from British Columbia, and I bought a basket of Delicious apples for us, then drove back and bought another basket for Rick. I stopped in Lumsden at the one butcher I know who can cut a perfect crown roast of pork and then, on impulse, I drove to the correctional centre to leave a note for Eve. Even with the extra drive to the correctional centre, I was home well before lunch.
I made a good molassesy Indian pudding, and by the
time Angus came home for lunch the house smelled the way a house is supposed to smell in the week before Thanksgiving. Before Angus went back to school, he helped me put sheets on the hide-a-bed in the granny flat and clean towels in the bathroom.
“Now what else?” I asked him, looking around.
“Some of those orange things along the fence in that mug there – a guy would like that.” We filled Ian’s pewter beer mug with Chinese lanterns and dried grass. Angus was right, it did look like the kind of thing a guy would like. When he went to school, I took the phone off the hook, set the table with our best cut-work tablecloth and the good silver, prepared the vegetables, made a quick trip to the liquor store for Rick’s brand of gin, and ran up my bill at the florist’s by buying two pots of fat bronze chrysanthemums and a bunch of creamy cosmos for the Waterford vase Rick had given me. Peter came home from school, filled the wood box and set a fire in the fireplace. I showered, dressed in a dark outfit of clingy silk that made me look glamorous and thin, then changed into a skirt and sweater that made me feel comfortable and drove to the airport to pick up Rick.
I had forgotten how big he was – tall and heavy. Maclean’s said he was the only TV journalist who was larger than life when you saw him in person. “He doesn’t disappoint” – that’s what the article about him said, and it was right. He certainly didn’t disappoint me that afternoon when I saw him standing by the luggage carousel in our bleak new airport.
He was all in brown, tweed and cashmere and silk. His dark blond hair was freshly barbered, and when he reached out to embrace me he smelled of good cologne, Scotch from the plane and something else.
“Deli,” he said extending a shiny shopping bag already beginning to darken with grease. “You said you couldn’t get good deli here, so there’s pastrami and salami, and with my luggage, in a box which, in theory, is insulated, there’s a cheesecake from the Red Panzer. Happy Thanksgiving, Joanne.”
It was one of the all-time great evenings. The meal was very good, and afterward we had coffee and brandy and went to Taylor Field to Peter’s football game. Under the lights of the stadium the players in their crayon-bright uniforms looked theatrical and unreal.
“I feel like I’m in the middle of a Debbie Reynolds-Donald O’Connor musical,” Rick said and smiled. His breath was frosty in the fresh, cold air.
“I always feel like that at these things,” I said. “I always find myself hoping I’ll be homecoming queen and get to go to the harvest dance with the captain of the football team.”
“Were you ever homecoming queen?” he asked, looking at me gravely.
“Nope,” I said. “Never went out with the captain of the football team, never even went to a harvest dance.”
“Thank God.” He laughed.
Peter’s team won, and we drove some of the kids home. As they climbed into the car they were exuberant. It was good to drive through the moonlit streets and hear their new deep voices cracking with excitement. At home, the boys went to bed, Rick lit the fire and we sat in front of it drinking tea and brandy and talking about everything and nothing: Mieka’s classes, Margaret Laurence’s novels, why politicians didn’t read more, and finally, when the sounds from upstairs died down and I knew the boys were sleeping, I told Rick about the relationship between Andy and Soren Eames. He was silent for a long while, then he said quietly, “Those things never end happily,” and stood up. “Time for bed, my homecoming queen.”
I walked out on the deck with him. The sky had cleared, and the night was full of stars, pinpoints of light in the darkness. I had left the lights on in the granny flat, and they glowed warm and inviting across the yard. Rick took both my hands in his and looked down at me.
“Thank you for a perfect night,” he said. Then he walked heavily across the yard. I watched him climb the stairs, watched as he tried the door then shrugged and turned toward me. “Key?” he said.
“Damn,” I said. “Sorry – in the window box – there’s a little plastic bag, taped to the side.”
He reached in, then raised his hand in the darkness. “Triumph,” he said, and he opened the door and disappeared inside.
I stood for a few minutes in the fresh cool air, watching his huge silhouette moving in the square of light from across the yard. Then I called in my dogs, and because I was at peace with the world when we went upstairs, I let them sleep at the bottom of my bed.
The day of Soren Eames’s memorial service was heartbreakingly lovely – a late Indian summer day, all blue skies and hazy autumn light. Rick and I drove to Wolf River right after breakfast. His TV crew was taping some background material when we arrived, and he excused himself and went over and talked to them. I was standing in the sunlight, warm in my white suit, when Inspector Millard tapped me on the shoulder.
“Hello, Mrs. Kilbourn.”
“Inspector? I’m surprised to see you here. Did you know Soren Eames?”
He lit a cigarette and shook his head. “No, I’m just kind of looking around.”
“But surely when you have Eve in custody …” My voice trailed off.
“Well, you never know.”
“Never know what?”
He shrugged and started to walk away. “See you in church, Mrs. Kilbourn.” But then he turned. “The other day in my office you said you were writing a book about Andy Boychuk – I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind.”
“No, I haven’t. In fact, I’m more committed than ever. I don’t think Eve Boychuk killed her husband, Inspector, and I don’t think she killed Soren Eames.” It was the first time I’d said the words aloud, and they sounded right.
He took a drag on his cigarette, threw it on the ground and crushed it with his toe. It was only half smoked.
“Mrs. Kilbourn, do your friends, the police, a favour, would you? Exercise prudence in this research of yours.” He pulled a package of Kools out of his breast pocket and took one out. He looked hard at me. “That’s a very attractive suit you have on. The perfect thing for this occasion.” Then he walked off, leaving me standing in the sunlight, speechless in my perfect suit.
I went over to talk to Rick, but he was taping – or almost. Just as I came up, the cameraman signalled Rick to move. “The way the light hits you where you’re standing, it looks like you’ve got the fucking cross burning on the top of your head.”
Rick smiled and shook his head at me, but he moved and started again. As I walked to the entrance of the CAP Centre, I could hear Rick’s voice, professionally solemn.
“Six months ago, Soren Eames stood on this spot in triumph. He had personally raised $5.5 million, and the prayer centre behind me had become a reality. He could not have known then that –”
A construction truck went by, blasting its horn. Someone who appeared to be in charge yelled, “Okay, that’s it, close it down while we silence our pal with the Tonka over there.”
Rick gave me a little wave, and I walked over and leaned against a pile of rocks, carefully arranged by size and colour. There was going to be a rock garden outside the chapel. Soren Eames had told me that the day we walked up the hill.
It really was warm. I could feel the sweat start under my arms.
Rick began again. “Six months ago, Soren Eames stood on this spot in triumph.…”
I turned and walked into the cool building.
Soren Eames’s memorial service broke my heart. The administration of the college had brought in a grief counsellor to help the students deal with Soren’s death. She had suggested that they would recover from their loss more quickly if they had a hand in planning the service. It was a sensible recommendation and a terrible one.
Because they were children who had little experience of death, they hadn’t learned the tricks of ceremony and tradition the middle-aged use to mute emotion. After the funeral, Mark Evanson, his young face swollen from crying, told me, “We wanted it to be special for Soren – not something out of a book. We wanted to say good-bye to him in our own voices.” The service was full of touches that
collapsed the space between us and our grief. The coffin was covered with a flawless piece of white lace that Soren had brought back with him from Dublin the summer before. Placed carefully in the centre was a child’s Bible. The president of the student association told us that Soren’s grandfather had brought it to the hospital the day Soren was born.
There was a program. The school choir sang a ragged selection of songs that Soren had liked – some solid gospel hymns but also, surprisingly, two show tunes, “Somewhere” from West Side Story and a Stephen Sondheim song called “Not While I’m Around.”
Between selections, students came forward with memories of special moments, special kindnesses. Finally, there was a tape of Soren’s speech at the dedication of the CAP Centre. When his voice, full of music and hope, began, the sobbing in that silent room cut straight to the bone. Beside me, Rick Spenser shuddered.
At the end, Lori Evanson, a small figure in black, stepped to the front and in her sweet, tuneful voice sang “Amazing Grace.”
Then her husband came and stood beside her and said very simply, “John 1:5 will help us now. ‘The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.’ “And it was over.
Rick and I didn’t find much to say to one another on the drive to the city. I could feel a knot of tension in my shoulders and the beginning of a headache, so I decided to go to the Lakeshore Club for a swim.
When I told Rick, he smiled. “That seems like an inspired idea.”
“Inspired enough for you to join me?”
He looked horrified. “God, no.” Then, seeing my face, he added more kindly, “Do you swim often?”
“Every Saturday morning. We all do. Well, we all do something at the Lakeshore Club. It’s our one invariable routine.”
He smiled. “Routine is comforting, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said, “it is. Now where would you like to be taken?”
