An Image in the Lake: A Joanne Kilbourn Mystery

by Gail Bowen

  Lori cast her husband an anxious glance. Obviously there was a piece of information that was Mark’s to deliver. His gaze was steady. “Mrs. Kilbourn, I believe God moves in mysterious ways, and that sometimes we see through a glass darkly.”

  A prairie picnic seemed an unlikely setting for an existential discussion. A group of boys to our left was having a contest to determine who could spit a watermelon seed the farthest. A woman next to them was selling chances on a star quilt glowing with the colours of sunset. Next to her, children not much older than Andy Evanson were crawling and climbing through an obstacle course. Andy had spotted them and was struggling to get free of his stroller. Lori reached down, released him and murmured, “Hang on, buddy. That’s where we’re going next.”

  When he was certain Lori’s assurance satisfied Andy, Mark began what was clearly a narrative he had delivered often. “Wolf River Bible College grade school is a wonderful God-centred community of people who share the same beliefs,” he said. “It had been the right place for Lori and me, but it was never the right place for Clay.

  “Our son had questions that Lori and I couldn’t answer. Clay never fit in, and he didn’t believe what the teachers tried to teach him. He started asking questions, and when the other students told him the teachers were right and he was bearing false witness, Clay started acting out. Lori and I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t listen. Clay said he was smart enough to find his own answers.”

  Lori nodded emphatically. “And Mr. and Mrs. Shreve, Clay is smart. He’s like Mark’s mother — very smart. We bought him a copy of the New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures, so he could find his own answers. We paid extra to have his name, Clay Thomas Evanson, embossed on the leather cover in gold. That book of the Holy Scriptures was beautiful, but Clay wouldn’t even open it.” Lori’s lovely blue-green eyes filled with tears. “Mrs. Kilbourn, do you remember me telling you that we chose Clay’s name from Isaiah 64:8? ‘But now, O Lord, You are our Father; we are the clay, and You are our potter; and we are the work of Your hand.’ Mark and I tried. We did our very best. So did Clay’s teachers. So did everyone else in the community. But no matter how hard we tried, Clay would not be shaped.”

  Mark swallowed hard. “Finally, the principal of the school called Lori and me in and said that it would be better for everyone if we found another school for Clay.”

  The story seemed to be moving inexorably towards tragedy. Zack’s eyes were downcast, and my chest was growing tight. Lori picked up on our concern. “Don’t be worried,” she said. “God had a plan.”

  Mark picked up the narrative. “Mrs. Kilbourn, do you remember my mother, Julie?”

  “I do indeed,” I said. Julie Evanson had been a thorn in the side of everyone who knew her. “I heard she remarried,” I said.

  “She did, and the man she married is an important person with important friends who all have cottages up north at Emma Lake. My mother really loves Clay and so does her husband. Clay was never happy in Wolf River, especially not in the summer. He didn’t have friends, and there was nothing for him to do. When Clay was seven, my mother and her husband started taking him to their cottage for the summer. He was happy with them, and when we told my mother and her husband about Clay’s problem at school, they said they were planning to move back to Regina, and he could live with them and finish school there. So, that’s what he did.”

  “Clay just finished his second year at the School of Journalism,” Lori said. “We’re very proud of him. He has a job at MediaNation, and he might be here today. Mark and I are hoping we’ll see him.”

  Mark put his arm around Lori’s shoulders. “I think my dad knew Lori and I would be lonely without Clay, so that’s why he suggested we move in with their family. My mother’s husband got me a really good job, and Manda and Lori opened up a preschool together in our house.”

  “It’s called Just Beginning,” Lori said, and her eyes were shining again. “I love the name, because it’s kind of the way it’s been for Mark and me and Clay and everybody. We’re all just beginning.”

  Mark’s gaze at Lori was adoring. “That’s exactly right,” he said. “We are all just beginning.”

  Lori handed Andy to her husband and came over to Zack and me. “I’m just going to hug you both,” she said. Lori’s arms were warm; her hair smelled of sunshine and summer, and her voice was gentle. “God bless,” she said.

  Zack and I watched as Andy Evanson ran off to join the kids on the obstacle course. Hand in hand, Lori and Mark ran after the little boy.

  Zack took one look at my face and moved his chair closer. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” I said. “Lori and Mark are such innocents and they wanted so little from life.”

  “That son of theirs sounds like a real piece of work,” Zack said.

  “The last time I saw Clay he was wearing a Mr. Pumpkin Halloween suit and twirling around in front of a mirror laughing at his reflection,” I said. “He was about three, and I’d bought the Mr. Pumpkin costume on impulse — it was very cute and it was half price. When I gave it to Lori, she was beside herself with joy.”

  “What went wrong there?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I was only there for the beginning of the story. Mark is the same age as Mieka. All the wives of the MLAs seemed to have babies within a year or so of one another, so there were plenty of birthday parties and trips to the park and get-togethers over coffee. We all thought our kids were special, but Julie Evanson was obsessed with making Mark the best and the brightest. She centred her life on her son: instructing him, challenging him, urging him to reach for the top.”

  “And Mark turned out to be average,” Zack said.

  “Actually a little below average,” I said. “As soon as Julie faced the truth that Mark would never excel at anything, she turned away. It was as if he had ceased to exist for her.”

  More than a few of Zack’s legal colleagues referred to him as the “Prince of Darkness,” but my husband had a soft spot for children, and Julie’s rejection of her son touched him. “How could anyone do that to a young boy?” he said. “Was Mark’s father in the picture?”

  “He was. Craig Evanson is a good man and he did his best to fill the void, but he was an MLA for a Regina riding, and that meant that in addition to his work in the legislature, he had to be present at every Robbie Burns dinner, fiftieth wedding anniversary and high school graduation in the constituency. His schedule didn’t leave much time for parenting. Anyway, somewhere along the line, Mark connected with a group of kids from Wolf River Bible College. At sixteen he was born again, and at seventeen he became a husband and not long after that a father.”

  “To a son who, as soon as he was old enough to see the lay of the land, abandoned his parents and moved onto greener pastures,” Zack said.

  “It is an ugly picture,” I said. “But I’m trying to see this from Clay’s perspective. The teachings of Wolf River Bible College are fundamentalist. They believe in a literal interpretation of the Bible and its events. If Clay is as smart and persistent as his parents say he is, he must have found the atmosphere at Wolf River stifling.”

  “I’m sure he did, but from what Mark said, he and Lori tried to do what they believed was best for their son. They deserve a place in his life.”

  “They do,” I agreed. “But Clay is young. Maybe given time, he’ll work that out for himself.” I checked my watch. “Madeleine and Lena are going to be arriving any minute, so we’d better stake out a claim on a picnic table.”

  Chapter Five

  The entertainment and Alison Janvier’s speech were scheduled to start at five o’clock. Many of those attending the picnic were people who, like Peggy Kreviazuk, had been party supporters for decades; many were millennials with young kids, and the organizers had wisely decided to keep the program short and the speeches to a minimum. The picnic coordinators aimed to have everyone fed, fired up and
on their way by 6 p.m.

  As people gathered in front of the temporary stage at the north end of the field, it was obvious the organizers’ decision had been a smart one. The mood was mellow, but after a day of eating, drinking and playing under the prairie sun, people were ready to pack it in.

  When I led Madeleine and Lena past the crowds to a shady spot beside the stage, Lena’s look was questioning. “How come we never sit out front like everybody else?”

  “Just habit,” I said. “Political people always sit by the side in case something goes wrong.”

  “Then they can help,” Lena said sagely. “Okay, Madeleine and I will spread out our blanket here.” She turned her attention to Zack. “Do you ever think you’re lucky because you always have your own chair?”

  Zack was pensive. “You know, I’ve never thought of it that way, but I guess I am lucky.”

  “And Lena and I are lucky,” Madeleine said. “Our team placed second in the selfie scavenger hunt. We won these cool ‘Alison Janvier’ T-shirts, and we learned to play Bocce.”

  “And Maddy and I beat you at horseshoes,” Lena said.

  “Not by much,” Zack said. “And Mimi and I watched a slo-pitch game.”

  “How could just watching be fun?”

  “Because there was a man there selling chili dogs and root beer,” I said.

  “That makes sense,” Lena said. Suddenly something in the distance caught her attention and she leapt to her feet. “Look! Uncle Pete, Aunt Maisie and the twins are here.”

  “So they are,” I said. “And right on time.”

  Charlie and Colin were almost four, and they were handsome boys. They had inherited their mother’s copper curls and gold-flecked brown eyes, but the perfect oval shape of their faces, their sculptured features and their sensitive mouths were the legacy of the Kilbourn males. Like their parents and their cousins, the twins were wearing the forest-green shirts that were popping up all over the picnic grounds like mushrooms after a three-day rain.

  I crouched down to talk to the boys. “So, did you have fun?” I asked.

  “We threw a ball. We climbed and we crawled through something,” Charlie said.

  “And we ran and got these.” Colin held out the bright yellow ribbon attached to his shirt.

  I looked at it closely. “Wow,” I said. “A ribbon for participation.”

  Zack gave me a sidelong look. “I told you our grandsons were law-school material.”

  Maisie, an accomplished trial lawyer, rolled her eyes. “Granddad’s right,” she said. “Just show up at the College of Law, participate for three years and they’ll give you your J.D. Easy-peasy.”

  “Mummy won Lego,” Charlie said.

  “And just like that, the subject changes,” I said.

  “Nope,” Peter said. “The subject is family triumphs, and Charlie’s right on topic. Maisie guessed there were eight hundred and seventeen pieces of giant Lego in a toy box and her estimate was right on the nose.”

  “We get to take the Lego home,” Colin said.

  “Congratulations all around,” I said.

  Maisie glanced at her husband. “We’re a lucky family,” she said.

  Pete’s arm was around Maisie’s shoulders, and he drew her close. “Very lucky,” he said.

  The first two years of their marriage had been troubled: Maisie’s twin sister, Lee, had died tragically; beaten down by sorrow, Maisie and Peter decided to move to the family farm and continue Lee’s heritage poultry breeding program.

  Like many decisions made by those mired in grief, the move had been a mistake. Maisie loved her husband and her children, but she was passionate about the law, and she was frank about admitting that she felt most fully alive when she was trying a case.

  Their farm was an hour’s drive from Regina — not a long distance, but the work of trial lawyers is gruelling, and by the time Maisie returned to the farm at night, she was exhausted and preoccupied. Ours is a close family, but there was nothing any of us could do but watch helplessly as the cracks in Pete and Maisie’s young marriage deepened. Their estrangement had reached the crisis point, and Maisie and Pete realized that the only way to keep their family whole was to sell the farm.

  The move back to the city had been painful for both of them, but it saved their marriage, On that late afternoon, I could see the confusion and fatigue that had knifed their faces for far too long had disappeared. Experiencing an old-time prairie picnic was a simple pleasure but a deep one, and as Synergy, the wildly energetic, multi-talented group of ten kids from an inner-city high school burst on stage to warm up the audience before Alison’s speech, Maisie’s eyes were bright. “This political thing can really be kick-ass,” she said.

  Inspired by the U.K. group Stomp, Synergy used innovative choreography, drum-line precision and brooms, metal garbage cans and oil barrels to create a dazzling eight-minute celebration of the noises we usually try to block out of our lives. Their performance received a standing ovation, and when Alison came onstage, the audience, already on its feet, went wild. She embraced each member of the group before moving to the podium and leaning into the mic to address the crowd.

  Alison had the gift essential in every successful politician: she could make even a stock speech sound intimate and fresh. “In the past year I’ve come to know the members of Synergy,” she began. “Their backgrounds are diverse and their stories, very different, but they share a common goal: to show our community that by working together, using the ordinary things at hand, we can create something that is more than the sum of its parts. We can create something amazing.

  “I see plenty of our campaign T-shirts in the audience. I also see plenty of shirts that are not in our campaign’s colours. That doesn’t matter. What matters is knowing that the issues confronting us are urgent: effective policies to combat human-caused climate change; investment in our infrastructure; retraining workers to give them the skills they need to get decent jobs in a rapidly changing job market; first-rate affordable child care; schools that meet the needs of all our children. The list is daunting, but together we have hammered out precise, practical policies to meet the needs of all our citizens.

  “We have learned to work alongside people whose political beliefs do not always align exactly with our own, but we have identified our common destination, and we agree that to reach that destination, there will be times when we have to paddle a little on the left, and times when we have to paddle a little on the right. All that matters is that we get there.”

  It was a short speech, and it contained nothing that Alison Janvier hadn’t said scores of times before, but it worked. When Alison’s speech ended, as it always did with J.S. Woodworth’s haunting words, “What we desire for ourselves, we wish for all,” the crowd’s roar was full-throated.

  It was the perfect ending to a perfect day, but there was a coda that resonated deeply with many of us. If Synergy had been a gift to the millennials, the man who came on stage wearing battered workboots and strumming the opening chords of “The Farmer’s Song” was a tip of the cap to those whose work for social justice spanned decades.

  The man onstage, fumbling a little as he adjusted the microphone, was not Murray McLauchlan, but McLauchlan’s tribute to all the unrecognized dusty old farmers out working their fields had long been an anthem at our party’s events. As Peter, Maisie, Zack, the girls, the twins and I hummed or sang the song that had been so much a part of our history, I felt the sting of tears. When Lena eyed me with concern, I tried a smile and turned to focus on the grove of poplars edging the field. Their leaves were turning, and the late summer light caught them, warming them to the colour of amber. It was a golden moment, but as the poet said, “Nothing gold can stay.”

  Tall, burly and assured, Howard Dowhanuik stood out in a crowd, and I always brightened when I caught sight of him. But that day as he moved towards us, my breath caught, because Howa
rd wasn’t alone. Jill Oziowy was with him.

  Oblivious to the fact that he was about to drop a grenade in our midst, Howard gave our family his quick, well-practised public smile and turned his attention to our candidate. Ali had joined in singing the final verse of “The Farmer’s Song.” “God, she’s good. She’ll go the distance,” he said. His voice was deep and assured, the voice of a man accustomed to being listened to. “Something came up, so Jill and I are late. How did Ali’s speech go over?”

  “You’re the éminence grise,” Zack said. “You heard the crowd. They loved her.”

  Howard nodded. “It sounded that way,” he said. “But a smart éminence grise always seeks a second opinion.”

  The relationship between my husband and my long-time friend had not always been cordial, but that afternoon, there was real affection in their comradely exchange. And that was a boon, because warmth was suddenly in short supply in our small group. Seconds earlier, we had been exuberant. Now our granddaughters ,and Pete and Maisie were silent, their faces impassive. When Colin and Charlie began looking uneasy, Maisie and Peter each picked up one of their sons.

  Finally, Jill took a tentative step towards Madeleine and Lena. “You’ve both grown so much,” she said. “Maddy, will you be in grade eight this year? And Lena, are you heading into grade seven?” When the girls didn’t respond, Jill tried a smile. “That must be exciting,” she said.

  Madeleine and Lena hadn’t seen Jill in three years, and they were at a loss about what to do. Lena eyed me beseechingly. “Mimi . . .”

  “The first day back to school is always an adventure,” I said, “and the girls are excited. But Ali’s about to make her exit, so it’s time for us to go back to the city.”

  “What the hell,” Howard said. “Jill and I just got here. We haven’t had a chance to talk yet.”

  Now the singalong was over, and people were clapping and calling Ali’s name in a ragged chorus. “Ali! Ali! Ali!” The event had been a triumph, but an old political friend once warned me that when a campaign appears to be going too well, somewhere there’s a dragon crawling out of its lair, heading towards your candidate with bedlam on its mind.