An Image in the Lake: A Joanne Kilbourn Mystery

by Gail Bowen

  Julie made a moue of disgust. “I’m not going to ask for anything from that woman. You talk to her.”

  “It’s not my concern. To be blunt, it’s not your concern either. This is between Clay and Jill. They work for the same company.”

  “The company of which my husband, Hugh, is CEO,” Julie said.

  “Then it’s a work problem,” I said. “Let the three of them deal with it.”

  “Clay doesn’t want his grandfather to see that tape. He’s nineteen years old, and you know how nineteen-year-olds are, Joanne. They make mistakes. He tried to apologize to Jill, but she wouldn’t hear him out.”

  “Julie, Clay did not try to apologize to Jill. The first word that came out of his mouth when Jill refused to give in to his demands was ‘cunt.’”

  Julie’s reaction was visceral. She gasped. “My grandson would never use that word.”

  “I was there, Julie, and that is the word Clay used. Zack there too, and as a lawyer, he advised Jill not to delete her recording because if Alison Janvier’s injuries were serious, Clay would be up on charges, and it would be evidence.”

  Julie stiffened. “Clay has already determined that Ms. Janvier has recovered from her little tumble.” That hurdle cleared, Julie forged ahead with an appeal to my better self. “Joanne, you and I were never close, but after Reid died, you were kind.”

  Her reference to Reid Gallagher was a deft touch, but my better self always seemed to vanish when Julie appeared. “I liked and respected Reid,” I said. “I wanted to give his colleagues at the School of Journalism a chance to honour Reid’s memory, and I knew you needed help. This situation is completely different.

  “Julie, when your grandson saw that Alison Janvier had been distracted, he deliberately pushed an obstacle in her path, so she would trip. After she fell and was lying flat on her face, he turned his camera on her. It was a malicious act, and it could have had serious repercussions.”

  “You don’t know the whole story, Joanne. Clay suffered a disappointment yesterday. He was wounded and he lashed out. I want to show our grandson that Hugh and I are on his side.”

  “If you really want to show Clay that you and your husband are on his side, you should sit down with him and make him see that what he did wasn’t journalism; it was a crime. And you should urge him to start making amends by apologizing to Alison Janvier.”

  Julie’s response was withering. “If I followed your advice, Clay’s career would be over before it began. I’ll find a way around this. Not everyone is as moralistic as you are, Joanne.”

  It was a stinging exit line, and having delivered it, Julie strode off, stopping only to drop the pastry box on our picnic table.

  A peace offering from Gâteau des Rois deserved a better fate. I picked up the box, went inside, called Mieka and invited myself to tea.

  Mieka answered after the first ring. “Telepathy,” she said. “The nursery is finally Desmond-ready, and I was hoping you’d be able to come over.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes, and I’m bringing a treat.”

  * * *

  Mieka was waiting in a rocker on the front porch when I arrived. When she spotted the patisserie box, she rubbed her hands together in glee. “Gâteau des Rois,” she said. “Pretty upscale for a nursery viewing.”

  “I’m regifting and I’ll tell you all about it, but first, let’s look at Des’s room.”

  Mieka extended her arms, so I could help her out of the rocker. Her face was pink with excitement. “Maddy and Lena spent hours choosing exactly the right colour and theme, and we did the rest together. The girls and I put on the finishing touches this morning before I dropped them off at day camp.”

  When we reached the second floor, Mieka linked her arm with mine. “Close your eyes, and I’ll tell you when you can open them.” She led me down the hall and into the room that had served as the nursery for Mieka, her brothers and her daughters. “You can look now,” she said.

  “Wow! This is a lot to take in,” I said. “It’s spectacular.” Indeed it was. The walls of the room were the velvety blue of the sky on a clear night, and they were covered in patterns of stars. “The zodiac constellations,” I said. “And the sun at the centre.”

  My daughter was beaming. “Madeleine found the original design online and printed off the description so we could memorize it and be knowledgeable when we were showing off the nursery. You’re our first customer.”

  Mieka took a deep breath. “What Des will be looking at are ‘constellations lying on the circular path of the ecliptic. As seen from Earth, the Sun appears to pass through these constellations over the course of the year, and that path is called the ecliptic. The twelve constellations in the zodiac family can all be seen along the ecliptic.’”

  “And they’re labelled, so when he’s older Des can learn to read their names.” I pointed them out. “Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo — that will be Des’s sign — Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius and Pisces.” I turned to my daughter. “This is perfect,” I said.

  Mieka was beaming. “Charlie, the girls and I think so.”

  “Taylor will love this,” I said. “So will Zack. But she’s in Vancouver, and he can’t do stairs, so it’s smartphone time — not the optimal solution, but as Hilda McCourt always said, ‘Needs must.’” I took my phone out and began snapping away. Two minutes after I sent Zack and Taylor the photos of the zodiac constellations; the beautiful white crib, dresser and changing table; the maple rocking chair and the hooked blue and white rug on the hardwood floor, Taylor sent a one-word text: “Stellar!” Zack had also limited himself to a single word: “Grateful!”

  * * *

  When we sat down for tea, Mieka cast an appraising eye at the pastries. “That’s quite a spread,” she said. “Chocolate eclairs, rhubarb and custard slices, raspberry and white chocolate macaroons and your favourite lemon slices. Julie must have had a large favour in mind.”

  “She did,” I said. Mieka listened with interest as I told her about meeting up with the Evansons at the picnic. Craig Evanson had been an MLA during the years our party had been in power, and Mark was the same age as Mieka. They’d grown up together, and when I told Mieka that Clay had cut himself off from his parents, her eyes filled.

  “Hormones,” she said, wiping her tears with a napkin. “But Mark really has had some tough breaks. First, that witch of a mother. She was always at Mark to be the best. He was a lovely kid, and he tried so hard to please her, but it was never enough. Then she just turned her back on him. It must have been devastating, but Mark never complained. He was a sweetheart.”

  “So is Mark’s wife, Lori,” I said. “Those two had so much love to offer a child.”

  “And they ended up with the bad seed,” Mieka said. “The girls told us about that stunt Clay Evanson pulled with the cables and wires lying on the stage. What he did was just plain cruel.”

  “I suspect Clay simply saw it as taking advantage of an opportunity to make Alison Janvier look weak. Incidentally, his name now is Clay Fairbairn. Somewhere along the line, he dropped the Evanson and adopted his step-grandfather’s surname.”

  “Sounds like his grandmother has taught him well,” Mieka said.

  “And he’s learning all the wrong lessons. I advised Julie not to sweep what Clay did under the carpet — to help him see that what he did was wrong and make amends. I suggested that apologizing to Alison Janvier might be a good place to start.”

  Mieka raised her eyebrows. “How did that go over?”

  “Julie said if she heeded my advice, Clay’s career would be finished before it began. She said she’d find a way around the problem because not everyone is as moralistic as I am.”

  Mieka wiped a smear of chocolate from her upper lip. “Mum, do you remember that horrible little kid who ruined Peter’s sixth birthday party?”

  I winced at the memory.
“I do. Of all the birthday parties we’ve had in this house, that was the worst. The boy’s name was Everett, and his parents made a point of telling me that they didn’t believe in ‘caging a child’s spirit.’ All the other parents just dropped their kids off, but Everett’s parents stayed. Whenever Everett didn’t get his way, he screamed or had a tantrum, and his parents never moved a muscle.”

  “Everett and his parents were the last ones to leave,” Mieka said. “When they finally left, Pete said, ‘Everett’s parents need to talk to Everett,’ and then he just wandered off.”

  My daughter and I both smiled at the memory. “That’s a classic Pete story,” Mieka said, “and somebody should tell it to Julie Evanson before it’s too late.”

  “Maybe it already is too late,” I said, and it seemed the words had formed themselves.

  * * *

  That night, after we’d cleared away the dinner dishes, Zack and I took our tea out to the patio overlooking the creek. The days were getting shorter. That evening the sun would set at a quarter to eight. It was a pretty night, still, and except for birdsong and the occasional plash of a beaver sliding into the water, it was quiet.

  Zack closed his eyes and leaned his head back against his chair’s headrest. “We need more of this, Jo.”

  I touched his hand. “More stillness in our lives? I’m for that.”

  “I am too,” Zack said. For a blissful few minutes we were still, but it wasn’t long until Zack opened his eyes and straightened. “Hey, I almost forgot to tell you — Annie and Warren Weber dropped by this afternoon. Warren wants the four of us to get together at the Scarth Club for lunch any day this week that works for us. Apparently, the club has a new chef, and the food is not only edible, it’s delicious.”

  “That is definitely something to look forward to,” I said. “We could have lunch with the Webers and then head to the lake later in the afternoon and start the weekend early.”

  “I’ll call Warren and tell him we’re on for Wednesday,” Zack said.

  In a perfect world my husband and I would have continued to sit in the gloaming, hand in hand, chatting quietly about our lunch with the Webers and the changes in the Scarth Club, until it grew dark, but the world was not perfect.

  When Zack wheeled his chair closer to mine, I knew he’d decided it was time to talk about Ellen Exton.

  “It’s been seventy-two hours, Jo,” he said, “and we still know nothing. This morning after Charlie’s show, he and I went to the cop shop to talk to Debbie directly. Charlie D was exactly the right person to make the report because he was close to Ellen and he was able to give Debbie a very complete picture of Ellen’s life, including her state of mind in the hours before she dropped out of sight.

  “Late this afternoon, Debbie called my office with a progress report. The police are doing everything they’re supposed to do. They’ve gone through Ellen’s apartment and through her car which, incidentally, was in the garage adjoining her house. There was a note in Ellen’s handwriting affixed to the fridge door with a magnet. One sentence: “It’s not enough!” The last two words were heavily underscored.”

  My throat tightened. “Do the police think it’s a suicide note?”

  “They’re considering that possibility,” Zack said, “but if so, where’s the body? And once again, what about the cats? No matter how desperate Ellen was, from what Charlie says, she would not have made her final exit, until she’d found a home for Mary and Mr. Grant.”

  Esme, always attuned to my moods, lay her head on my lap. I scratched her head and murmured, “Best dog ever.” Pantera grunted and moved closer to Zack.

  “It gets worse,” Zack said. “Ellen’s parents have come down from Saskatoon. They’re distraught, of course, but when they were interviewed, they were able to give Debbie a thorough account of Ellen’s educational and employment history. Ellen spent at least one weekend a month in Saskatoon, and her parents gave the police the contact information for their daughter’s friends there. She’s an only child, and they’re a close family. Anyway, the police have current photos of her and a detailed physical description. They’re interviewing Ellen’s colleagues at MediaNation, and they’ve put Ellen’s photo and physical description on social media as a missing persons case.”

  “So, everything that can be done is being done,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Zack said. “But it’s being done seventy-two hours too late.”

  Chapter Seven

  When Zack came to pick me up for lunch with the Webers on Wednesday, he was wearing the golf shirt and casual slacks he’d been wearing when he left for a morning meeting at a client’s home.

  “Aren’t you going to change?” I said.

  “I thought you liked this shirt?”

  “I love that shirt — pomegranate is a great colour for you, but the Scarth Club has a jacket and tie rule.”

  “Not anymore,” Zack said airily. “The times, they are a changin’.”

  “I didn’t think the times would ever change for the Scarth Club,” I said. “It wasn’t that long ago that the only woman who’d ever been inside the building was a lady of the evening whose client died while they were making whoopie in one of the rooms upstairs.”

  “That was at least a century ago,” Zack said. “The club has moved on. Women are welcome, guys don’t have to wear a coat and tie, and the building has been renovated.”

  I groaned. “They haven’t ripped out all that beautiful cherrywood, have they?”

  “No. All that beautiful cherrywood is still there. The focus was on the kitchen, which had last been ‘modernized’ in 1952; there’s a new menu, and . . . Do you remember that old cricket pitch the club had out back?”

  “I do,” I said. “Gone with the wind?”

  “Gone and replaced with raised beds, where the new chef is growing herbs and vegetables. The Webers have arranged for us to have lunch on the patio, because Warren knew you’d be interested in the gardens. He’s also sending his driver to pick us up, so we can enjoy one of the club’s famous old-fashioneds.”

  “Warren thinks of everything,”

  “He does indeed,” Zack said. When our doorbell rang, my husband gave me a Cheshire cat grin. “Warren’s driver. And he’s right on time.”

  * * *

  The club manager greeted us warmly. “There are many changes, and you’ll be among the first to see them. Our official opening is on Labour Day, but Mr. and Mrs. Weber have been generous supporters of our remodelling, and this week we’ve opened our doors to club members eager to show their friends what we now have to offer. The Webers are waiting for you on the patio.”

  Warren and Annie Weber were a head-turning couple. Warren was eighty, an attractive six-footer with an enviable head of thick snowy hair, an always meticulously trimmed moustache and a level, steely gaze. The Webers were partial to outfits in complementary hues. That afternoon, Annie, a thirty-year-old blond, with a heart-shaped face and eyes as steely as her husband’s, was wearing a periwinkle cotton sundress. Warren’s slacks were dazzlingly white and his long-sleeve polo shirt was periwinkle. The gossips had a field day when the Webers married. Before her marriage, the bride had managed a biker bar called Wheelz, and the groom was the sole owner of a very profitable farm machinery company. But the cynics were wrong. Warren and Annie were a love match, one of the happiest couples we knew.

  They both rose when they saw us. After a round of embraces, we took our places at the lunch table.

  “I’m so glad we’re able to eat outside,” Annie said. “A perfect summer day, dear friends and a menu offering food that hasn’t been sitting in a steam table since seven in the morning. What more could we ask for?”

  The server arrived with the menus and announced the special for the day: coho salmon flown in from the Queen Charlottes that morning, served with lemon, tarragon and garlic sauce, a wild rice salad and grilled asparagus. He added that if we so
chose, we could watch as our salmon was barbecued. We all ordered the salmon and our drinks: the Scarth Club’s storied old-fashioneds for Zack, Warren and me, and a lemonade Shirley Temple with extra maraschino cherries for Annie who had broken up enough fights at Wheelz to see the wisdom of sobriety.

  Lunch was a happy affair. The meal was excellent, and listening to the chef explain how he grilled salmon to the perfect degree of doneness was a lesson I needed to learn. Our conversation was light-hearted. Annie was eager to see pictures of Des’s nursery, and Zack and I were eager to see photos of the lakefront room the Webers had built at their place across the lake from us at Lawyers Bay.

  We decided against dessert, but when Warren said he had something to discuss with us, we asked the server to bring us a pot of Earl Grey. As soon as Warren poured our tea, he waded in. “Hugh Fairbairn asked me to talk to you about MediaNation. His father and I were friends, and since Alistair died, Hugh and I have had some dealings. At any rate, when the son of a friend asks . . .”

  “No need to explain, Warren,” Zack said. “You’ve been there often enough for Joanne and me.”

  “Thank you,” Warren said. “Context first. When MediaNation purchased Nationtv last year, there were no shock waves. Everybody knew the federal government loathed Nationtv, but although they slashed Nationtv’s budget every year, the feds still had taxpayers’ money going to a public corporation. It was a political albatross with their supporters, so when MediaNation offered to remove the albatross, the federal government jumped.”

  Zack chuckled. “I imagine a lot of Hugh’s shareholders were ready to jump too. More than a few people I know thought he’d bought a pig in a poke. Of course, when Charlie D in the Morning started to gain traction, the naysayers took another look at the pig.”