An Image in the Lake: A Joanne Kilbourn Mystery

by Gail Bowen

  Zack transferred his body from the bed to his chair, wheeled over to join me and tilted his head back to assess the situation. “We’re in for a gully-washer,” he said. “That is what Fred C. Harney would call a rat-coloured sky.”

  “Fred certainly had a way with words,” I said.

  “He did,” Zack agreed. “I learned more about law and life the year I articled for him than I did in three years at the College of Law. And if Fred ever drew a sober breath, it wasn’t in my presence.”

  “A sad life,” I said.

  Zack was meditative. “Fred didn’t see it that way. He loved the law; he was one helluva lawyer, and he died the death trial lawyers dream of — a heart attack seconds after the jury came back with the verdict.”

  “Had he won his case?”

  At that instant, a thunderclap split the stillness. Zack glanced up at the heavens. “Fred says the jury found his client innocent on all counts.” He grinned. “Fred always had to have the last word.”

  When the rain began, Zack and I rushed inside and closed the patio doors. “Finally, a break in this weather,” I said. “And just in time. A Real Prairie Picnic is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Asking people to turn up in the heat we’ve been having would have been unconscionable.”

  My phone rang. It was Charlie D. “Who do you hear from more often than me?” he said.

  “Today, no one,” I said, “but if you’re calling with good news, bring it on.”

  “Well, I have news, but it’s not good. I still haven’t heard from Ellen. I keep telling myself it’s been less than a day since Joseph Monk gave her the axe, and she needs time to regroup.”

  “How’s that working for you?” I said.

  “Not well,” Charlie D said. “But I’m calling to ask a favour. I just had a text from Monk telling me that our new executive producer for programming is arriving on the three thirty flight from Toronto, and suggesting that I pick her up and take her to MediaNation for a get-acquainted meeting.”

  “So, MediaNation has chosen somebody to take Rosemary’s place,” I said. “That has to be a relief for everybody. Do you know anything about the new hire?”

  Charlie hesitated. “Rosemary’s replacement is not a new hire,” he said carefully. “She’s been with the company for a while. She’s walking into a mess, but she’ll handle it.”

  “Good news,” I said. “But you said you needed a favour.”

  “Right,” he said. “Madeleine and Lena are at what was supposed to be a pool party, but given the weather, I imagine they’re partying indoors. Whatever the case, I don’t like leaving Mieka alone. Could you come over and keep your daughter company?”

  “Of course,” I said. “You do realize that Mieka will accuse me of hovering.”

  “Blame it on me,” Charlie said. “I have broad shoulders. Jo, I’ll try to keep this meeting short. With luck, I’ll be home around five. Text me if anything comes up with Mieka or if Zack hears from Ellen.”

  “Everything’s under control,” I said. “Just focus on your meeting with the new producer.”

  Charlie’s voice was deep and intimate. “I hope you and Zack know how grateful Mieka and I are to have you in our lives.”

  “We know, and that goes both ways. I’ve never seen Mieka happier than she’s been since she married you.” I swallowed hard. “This is turning into a Hallmark moment. We’d better end the call before the violins start.”

  When Mieka’s first marriage ended, she moved back to Regina into the house where my first husband, Ian Kilbourn, and I had raised her and her brothers. Mieka was a single mother with two very young daughters and the new owner of a café play centre called UpSlideDown. Her plate was full. Redecorating was at the bottom of her to-do list and it had stayed there as she opened her second play centre and married Charlie. So, the house I walked into that afternoon was pretty much as it had been in all the years I had lived there: a welcoming place with a mix of some handsome pieces Ian and I had inherited and the comfortable, sturdy, family-friendly furniture we had purchased when the kids were little.

  Mieka had trained as a caterer, and cooking was her go-to activity in times of stress — even on a summer day. When I arrived, she was in the kitchen wearing a sundress the colour of a cut peach and tidying up after making snickerdoodles. My daughter is one of those fortunate women who blossom in pregnancy, and that day with her fair hair bleached by sunshine and her skin, tanned and glowing, she was more beautiful than ever.

  She raised an eyebrow when she saw me. “Let me guess. Charlie D sent you over to keep me from running outside and playing in traffic.”

  I hugged her. “Something like that.”

  “Perfect timing,” she said. “There’s iced tea in the fridge. Sit down, and I’ll get us some. The snickerdoodles will be ready in about thirty seconds.”

  “You sit,” I said. “I’ll get the tea and cookies.”

  Mieka lowered herself carefully into a chair and sighed contentedly. “Who knew sitting could be such a pleasure?”

  I poured our tea, added a sprig of mint, took the cookies out of the oven and slid them onto the cooling rack.

  Mieka eyed them hungrily. “Let’s live dangerously and eat some of those while they’re still hot,” she said.

  For a few moments we were silent, content to sip iced tea and nibble at snickerdoodles. “It doesn’t get much better than this, does it?” I said.

  Mieka shook her head. “Mum, do you remember that old TV ad where the mother tucks her kids in and goes outside and sits on the steps of her front porch?”

  “I do,” I said. “Her husband comes out and asks her if something’s wrong. And she says, ‘No, it’s just that everything is so right.’”

  Mieka’s grey-green eyes shone with emotion. “That’s exactly what I’m feeling, and, Mum, please hold back on your ‘don’t tempt the fates’ glare. I just want you to know how happy I am.”

  My daughter’s words meant the world to me. Mieka had known her share of pain: her father’s death; the break-up of her first marriage; the challenges of starting her life again as a single parent with two very young daughters and new business; the end of a relationship with a decent but deeply troubled man with whom she hoped to spend the rest of her life; and — perhaps the cruellest cut of all — the revelation that the father she had idolized was a liar and a cheat.

  I took her hands in mine. “Look at my face,” I said. “Not a trace of my ‘don’t tempt the fates’ glare. Mieka, no one could be happier for you than I am.”

  My daughter patted her abdomen. “I can’t wait for this little dude to make his appearance.”

  I pricked up my ears. “Hey, did you just let it slip that the baby is a dude, not a dudette?”

  My daughter slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Pregnancy brain, and Charlie and I came so close to keeping it a secret,” she said. “But yes, it’s a boy, and his name will be Desmond after your father, and Zackary after Zack, who has been the best grandfather and stepfather the girls and I could have asked for.”

  “Zack will be touched. I am too, but won’t Howard be hurt that his name’s not included?”

  “Charlie’s relationship with his father is still a work in progress,” Mieka said. “Des’s surname will be Dowhanuik, so everybody will be happy.”

  “I certainly am,” I said.

  Mieka’s phone rang. She saw the caller ID and frowned. “Sorry, Mum. “There’s a problem at UpSlideDown, and I have to deal with it.”

  “Why don’t you take your phone into the living room, and let me clean up here?”

  After I washed the cookie sheets and put our tea things in the dishwasher, I returned to the round maple table where Mieka and I had been sitting. It was my grandmother’s, and I’d spent hours there, planning and dreaming when I was pregnant with Mieka. The rain was beating steadily on the roof, and the world o
utside the kitchen window was grey. Not surprisingly, the memories flooded back. For many years after Ian died, I found comfort in remembering our life together — the years when he was the province’s attorney general, and I was the woman behind the man, raising our children, writing speeches for him to deliver, roasting turkeys and hams for political dinners and handling the constituency work.

  It wasn’t the life I’d anticipated. When I met Ian in university, we believed we’d be like D.H. Lawrence’s twin stars: separate and brilliant and eternal. As it turned out, Ian became the star, and I became the star-gazer, but it was a good life, and when Ian was killed on a snowy highway in the southwest of our province, I was devastated. For weeks, I was an automaton, dully and dutifully going through the motions of living. Mieka was fifteen, and every morning, I awoke to find her beside my bed, eyes anxious, asking me to get up and help her make breakfast for her brothers, so they could all go to school. That period was beyond terrible, but I pushed through because I had children and because I believed that our children and I had been the centre of Ian’s life.

  Fifteen years later, on my fifty-eighth birthday, Mieka, her brothers and I were presented with unassailable evidence that, from a time shortly before Mieka’s birth until the day he died, Ian had been involved sexually with his chief of staff, Jill Oziowy. Jill and I were as close as sisters. She was godmother to our children, and they loved her. With Ian’s encouragement, Jill had become part of our family.

  The magnitude of their betrayal was overwhelming. For my adult children and me, it was as if we’d entered a parallel universe, a world that coexisted with the world we had known, but threw everything we believed our lives had been into question.

  My older son, Peter, is the gentlest of my children, but after he learned about Ian and Jill, his bitterness frightened me. He was thirteen when Ian died — on the cusp of becoming a young man. When he learned about the affair, Pete told me that after Ian’s death, the only way he could get to sleep was by remembering every moment he had spent with his dad. The revelation that Ian had been an adulterer tore Peter apart. Instead of the comfort of childhood memories, all he had were jagged, unanswerable questions about what his father and Jill were doing the hundreds of times Ian couldn’t be with us because he had “urgent business” at the legislature. There was nothing I could do to lessen my son’s pain because I was experiencing that pain myself.

  I was relieved when Mieka returned from her phone call and drew me back into the present. “Disaster averted,” she said. “The roof in the quiet play area is leaking, and the manager had to close UpSlideDown. I called Zack, and he said one of the big roofing companies is a Falconer Shreve client, and he’d have them send somebody over when the rain stops.” She shook her head. “Mum, I don’t know what we’d do without Zack. He is so supportive of us all.”

  “He knows what it’s like to run a business when it’s just getting established.”

  My daughter and I had another glass of tea and talked of the inconsequential matters mothers and daughters have talked about since the earth cooled. We were both surprised when Charlie texted to say he’d picked up the girls at their party, and they’d be home in ten minutes.

  * * *

  When Madeleine and Lena burst through the kitchen door, they were soaked to the skin and fizzing with excitement. The girls were twelve and eleven, respectively, and there had been boys at the pool party. According to Lena, they were goofy, but Madeleine said they were goofy in a nice way, and as soon as the rain started, the boys were really helpful carrying things inside.

  “Boys have their uses,” I said.

  When Mieka caught my eye, her smile was impish. “Mimi’s right. Having a boy around the house could be a lot of fun.”

  It had been a fine afternoon for everybody, and when I picked up the cookies Mieka had boxed for us, I was smiling.

  The smile didn’t last long. After the usual flurry of goodbye hugs, Charlie took an umbrella from the hall closet and said he’d walk me to my car. I assumed that once I was safe and dry in the Volvo, Charlie D would go back to the house; instead, he slid into the passenger seat. My body tightened. “Is there news about Ellen?” I said.

  “No,” he said. “That’s gnawing at me, and now there’s something else. Jo, there’s no way to soften this blow. The new executive producer for programming is Jill Oziowy.”

  I was dumbfounded. “Charlie, this can’t happen.”

  His gaze was level. “It’s already happened. I did my best. Ten minutes after I left here this morning, Joseph Monk called with the announcement. Monk said that he, our CEO Hugh Fairbairn and Jill Oziowy had ‘an intense meeting’ immediately after MediaNation severed Ellen’s connection with the corporation. Decisions had to be made, and they had to be made quickly.”

  “So the upshot of the intense meeting was to send Jill Oziowy to Regina to save the day.”

  My tone was waspish, but Charlie responded with quiet logic. “Jo, you’re aware of the situation. The streaming services are clobbering us. Our strategy is counter-programming premised on the belief that there’s an audience out there that’s smart, curious and hungry for knowledge and a deeper understanding of what it means to be human. We’re aiming high and it’s a risk, but the pieces were falling into place until Rosemary Morrissey left. That’s when Jill Oziowy stepped in. She was working from Toronto, but with Ellen Exton’s help, Jill was able to manage the day-to-day decisions about the new programming.”

  “And yet they fired Ellen,” I said. “This doesn’t make any sense, Charlie.”

  “I agree, but ours is not to wonder why. Senior management has made its decision. After I talked to Monk, I called Hugh Fairbairn to plead our case. He invited me to come to his office. He was welcoming; he said he would hear me out, but the decision was made.

  “Jill had been open about the affair she’d had with Ian and how devastated you and your children had been when you learned about it. Hugh offered to call you to apologize for any hurt Jill’s presence in Regina would cause you and explain why her presence is necessary.”

  “I don’t want Hugh Fairbairn’s apologies or his explanations,” I said, and my voice quivered with anger. “I just want Jill to go back to Toronto.”

  My son-in-law’s dark honey voice was soothing. “I’m always on your side, Jo. You know that, but Hugh’s reasons for wanting Jill here are sound.”

  “My reasons for not wanting her here are also sound. Two hours ago Mieka told me how happy she is because everything in her life is ‘so good.’ Learning about Ian’s betrayal changed Mieka. She’d always seen the best in people, but for a long while after she learned about Ian and Jill, she was bitter and cynical. It hasn’t been easy for her to regain the trust she lost, but for the girls’ sake, she has. Mieka is finally back to being the woman she was. She doesn’t need a reminder of how little Ian’s family meant to him.”

  Charlie leaned back against the headrest and half closed his eyes. “I remember how Mieka worshipped her father,” he said. “I never understood it. To me Ian was as self-centred and indifferent to his family as my father was. But in Mieka’s eyes, Ian could do no wrong. The night she learned about the affair, she phoned me after the girls were in bed. She’d held it together for them, but when she called me, she was barely coherent. I was living in Toronto, but I offered to come to Regina. Mieka said she had to work this out on her own. After that, we talked almost every night.”

  “Did she talk about Ian and Jill with you?”

  “No. We talked about old times and the twists and turns out lives had taken since I moved east. Somewhere along the line, we fell in love. When I was offered the job here, we had our happy ending.” Charlie paused. “Jo, did you ever learn how Mieka found out about Ian and Jill?”

  “I told her,” I said. I drew in a deep breath. “It happened during Zack’s campaign for mayor. Slater Doyle, the campaign manager for Zack’s opponent, came into our he
adquarters with an old compact cassette player and an ultimatum. He said he had a number of audio tapes of Ian and Jill ‘sampling the smorgasbord of sexual delights,’ and if Zack didn’t withdraw from the race, he’d make the tapes public.”

  “Audio tapes?” Charlie’s brow furrowed. “Where the hell did they come from?”

  “Ian’s secretary, Valerie Smythe. Apparently, from the time I was pregnant with Mieka until Ian’s death, covering for Jill and him was part of Valerie’s job. She knew Ian’s schedule, and her hobby was making tape recordings of Ian’s speeches in the legislature or at public events. The temptation to record Ian’s private utterances must have been irresistible. The affair lasted fifteen years. Slater Doyle had boxes of the tapes, neatly labelled with dates and times. I told Doyle the decision wasn’t Zack’s to make, it was mine, and I refused to give into blackmail. So Doyle turned the cassette player on — full volume — and played a tape of Ian urging Jill on as she fellated him. It was like being in the same room with them.”

  “How did Slater Doyle get the tapes?”

  “Valerie Smythe gave them to him. She had testified against a client of Zack’s and according to her, after Zack tore her apart on the witness stand, she had a breakdown, and she was never able to get a decent job again.”

  Charlie narrowed his eyes, reading my expression. “Are you all right, Jo?”

  “No, but you asked how Mieka found out about Ian and Jill, and this is part of the story. There was a rally at the Pile O’ Bones Club a couple of hours after Slater’s big announcement. It was my birthday, so after the speeches and hoopla, my family gathered around me onstage so everybody could sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and the grandchildren could help me blow out the candles on the cake. As soon as we got off stage, I took Mieka and her brothers back to the green room and told them about the tapes. It was the worst moment of my life.”