An Image in the Lake: A Joanne Kilbourn Mystery

by Gail Bowen

  Flushed with pleasure, Harper joined Thalia. I moved close to Alison. “That young woman knows how to take control,” I said.

  “She does indeed,” Alison said, and she gestured for me to follow her to a spot that was out of earshot. “The courier who came to our place this morning brought a letter from Clay Fairbairn for me too.”

  “That’s a shocker,” I said. “What did he want?”

  “Forgiveness,” she said. “He explained that when he learned Harper had won the award, he was disappointed and he acted badly. He apologized for creating a situation that put me in danger. He said the incident had been a wake-up call for him. He was grateful that I hadn’t been hurt, and he wanted me to know that something positive came out of what happened that day. Clay says he’s been seeing a counsellor; he’s cut himself off from the group with whom he’d always associated, and he’s promised his grandparents he’ll do everything he can to become a better man.”

  “Do you believe him?” I said.

  “I want to,” Alison said.

  “So do I,” I said.

  Ali’s dark eyes were troubled. “Maisie says that Jill Oziowy believes Clay is a sociopath.”

  “She does. Zack believes that too. Jill has had personal experiences with two men who were sociopaths, and Zack has had several as clients. Clay displays some troubling signs, and I’m sure Jill and Zack would advise you to be cautious about accepting Clay’s letter as a genuine expression of his feelings.”

  “So, I shouldn’t regard what he’s written as the truth.”

  “I think you should regard what Clay wrote as the truth as he sees it,” I said. “And who knows? If you accept his apology and offer support for his efforts to become a better man, you might tip the balance.”

  “Or Clay might have the last laugh and show my letter to the members of the cohort as proof that when it comes to manipulation, he is the master.”

  “Can you live with that possibility?” I said.

  Ali’s smile was sad and knowing. “Sure,” she said. “I can live with being a laughingstock. What I can’t live with is the possibility that I shut the door on someone who asked for my forgiveness.”

  “I needed to hear that,” I said. “Zack always says I have a sunny view of human nature, but events lately have eclipsed my sunny view. I’ve become less trusting. I’m uneasy about the interview Thalia did with Harper. Could you make certain to get a copy of it before it’s aired?”

  “Consider it done,” Alison said briskly. “I may have my Pollyanna moments, but I’m not stupid.”

  * * *

  Alison was quick off the mark. When I checked my phone after dinner, I saw that she’d sent the MP3 file of Thalia’s interview with Harper. Zack and I had planned a quiet evening, and when we’d cleared away the dinner dishes, we turned on the fireplace in the family room and sat down to listen to the interview.

  It was a compelling piece, and Thalia Monk was a superb interviewer. Her deep throaty voice drew the listener into the small and intimate circle that seemed to enclose Thalia and her subject as they talked. She began by congratulating Harper Janvier on winning the Lee Gowan Award for his article on the disproportionately high rate of suicide of boys between the ages of ten and nineteen and of young men in their twenties.

  When Thalia asked him to talk a little about what had drawn him to explore this subject, Harper paused before answering. “The pain,” he said simply. “I saw it and I felt it in my own community. At first, my focus was on Indigenous boys and young men, but as I broadened my research, I saw that the statistics for suicide among non-Indigenous boys and young men were also disproportionately high, and that the risk factor for both groups was the same. These boys and young men shared the perception that they were facing a world that did not have a place for them.”

  “You gave your article the title ‘Are We the Rabbits of Watership Down?’” Thalia said. “Could you explain why you made that choice?”

  “Sure. I read Watership Down when I was a kid, and it stayed with me. The novel was written by Richard Adams and it follows a small group of rabbits seeking a place to establish a new haven after their home is destroyed.” Harper stopped. “Have you read it, Thalia?”

  “No,” she said. “Until now I’d never even heard of it.”

  “I’ll lend you my copy,” Harper said. “Then we can talk about it together.”

  From that point on, the interview moved with the easy fluidity of a dance between a man and woman who wordlessly anticipated and responded to each other’s thoughts.

  When Harper explained that the rabbits encounter dangers along the way, and when one of their number dies, the survivors disappear into their burrows without acknowledging the death, Thalia’s intake of breath was audible.

  “They pretend nothing happened,” she said, “and that’s what we’re doing with the boys and young men who commit suicide. When they cry for help, we disappear into our own lives and don’t acknowledge what’s happened. And your article is a challenge to us all to acknowledge the pain so many young men are feeling and reach out to them.”

  “Right,” Harper said. “I wanted to shine a light on the need to talk about what is happening and explore the strategies that had been proposed for helping them find an answer to the questions that haunt them: ‘Who am I really? Where do I fit in?’”

  It was a compelling piece, and Zack and I were floating ideas about how to meet Harper’s challenge when his phone rang. He took the call outside in the hall. When he returned fifteen minutes later, the creases that bracketed his mouth like parentheses had deepened — a sure sign he was confronting trouble.

  “From the look on your face, I’m guessing we’re going to shelve our discussion of Harper’s article,” I said.

  “Yeah.” From his laconic reply, I knew Zack’s attention was elsewhere. “That was Warren on the phone. Mike Braeden’s at the Webers’ house. His wife attacked him.”

  After the drama at the Scarth Club dining room, I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I found I was. “Patti attacked him physically? I can’t believe it.”

  “According to Warren, Patti accused Mike of searching through her private papers. When Mike told her he had no idea what she was talking about, she lost it. She was holding a bottle of liquor. When Mike tried to take it from her, she smashed it and came at his face with the broken edge of the bottle. Mike was bleeding profusely and in no condition to drive, so he called the Webers. They live just a few doors from Mike on University Park Road, so they took him to Emergency. He’s patched up and back at their place now, but Warren felt Mike needed to talk to a lawyer.”

  “And you’re it.”

  “Looks like. Anyway, I should get going.”

  “I’ll keep the bed warm.”

  Zack wheeled his chair closer and held out his arms to me. “Something to look forward to,” he said.

  * * *

  For people like me, who have lived in Regina for much of their adult life, many street names convey information about the socio-economic status of those who live on them. Zack’s reference to University Park Road conjured images of large, carefully landscaped homes with the close-to-the-ground profile and wide-open layouts of the ranch houses popular in the mid-twentieth century. Zack and I had been guests at parties or dinners in many of those homes, including the Webers’, and my memories of the neighbourhood were pleasant, but as I turned down our bed, I thought of what Zack was facing and felt a coldness in the pit of my stomach.

  It was half past ten when I heard the front door open and the swoosh of the wheels of Zack’s chair as he came down the hall to our bedroom.

  When he saw me sitting in the rocking chair by the window reading, Zack drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m glad you’re still up, because there’s a cross-current in the Braeden case that’s going to keep me awake. Talking it through might help.”

  “While y
ou get ready for bed, I’ll get us both a drink,” I said. “Tea or something stronger?”

  “Something stronger,” Zack said. “Two fingers of bourbon neat, but you have slender fingers, so make that three.”

  Readying himself for bed was not a simple process for my husband, so I let out the dogs for a quick run around the yard and set the table for breakfast before I poured the drinks. When I returned to our room, Zack was in his robe waiting by the window. I handed Zack his drink and settled into the rocking chair with mine.

  Zack took a large sip of bourbon and groaned with contentment. “That’s soothing, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Start when you’re ready.”

  “I wasn’t prepared for how bad Mike’s face was. Patti did a real number on him. Luckily, she missed his eyes. Warren’s going to help him check out plastic surgeons tomorrow.”

  “Mike must be in a great deal of pain.”

  Zack nodded. “He’s an athlete, and athletes learn to play through pain, but it must hurt like hell. They gave him something at the hospital, but the opioid crisis has put the fear of God in everybody, so Mike’s doctors haven’t given him any heavy duty stuff.”

  “How are his spirits?”

  “He’s stoic, and Annie has done wonders with him already. By the time I got there, she’d managed to get Mike showered and into a clean robe and slippers, and she was at the mall getting him the toiletries and clothes he’d need in the immediate future.”

  “Annie’s amazing,” I said. “She never backs down from a challenge, and she never misses a beat. Managing a biker bar obviously builds character. So, what’s next?”

  Zack sipped his drink. “That’s where the complications begin. Mike doesn’t want the police involved. His only concern is Patti’s daughter. He says he’s never seen a human being suffer the way Thalia has suffered. He married Patti because he thought he could give Thalia some stability in her life.”

  “Did he manage to connect with Thalia?”

  “No, Mike said the damage that had been done to her was irreparable.”

  “Does he know the source of the damage?”

  “Mike knew that Thalia’s brother committed suicide, but she refused to talk about his death. Mike said Thalia never mentioned Nicholas by name, but she wore a lock of his hair in an amulet around her neck.”

  “A grief amulet,” I said. “People used to wear those, generations ago. That’s heartbreaking.”

  “And Mike is determined to protect her at any cost,” Zack said.

  “That means not involving the police,” I said. “But Mike can’t ignore what happened tonight.”

  “No. Having his wife attempt to tear off his face with a broken liquor bottle was definitely a tipping point.” My husband’s tone was ineffably weary. “Mike asked me to arrange an appointment for him with one of the firm’s divorce lawyers, and I’ll do that. I also took pictures of Mike’s injuries and his discharge papers from the hospital. And I filmed him telling me exactly what happened and Warren explaining his role in the evening’s events.”

  “Pretty much what the police would have done if they’d been involved,” I said.

  Zack nodded. “Pretty much. Also pretty much what Mike’s lawyer will need if Ms. Morgan contests the divorce.”

  “So, that’s it for tonight?”

  “That was it for Warren and me. But after Annie came home, she went down the street to see how Patti was doing and to learn if the housekeeper knew where Thalia was.”

  “And the housekeeper was willing to talk to Annie?”

  “Halima and Annie are friends,” Zack said. “Halima’s teaching Annie how to weave, and she’s very fond of Mike, so she was glad she could be of help tonight.”

  “So, what’s the situation at the Braedens?”

  “Thalia arrived home an hour ago, and by that time Halima had the house straightened up, and Patti was in bed, asleep or whatever passes for sleep for that poor woman. Halima told Thalia there’d been some ‘angry words’ between her mother and Mike. As soon as Thalia heard that Mike was fine and staying at the Webers’, she made a phone call, packed an overnight bag and said she’d be staying overnight at a friend’s.”

  “No questions about her mother?”

  “Not a one.” Zack furrowed his brow. “Jo, what’s your take on Thalia?”

  “To paraphrase Churchill on Russia, Thalia Monk is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. She’s a complex young woman who carries the key to everything she is in the grief amulet that contains a lock of her dead brother’s hair.”

  “That day at the Scarth Club we had a glimpse of the pain she lives with,” Zack said. “It’s hard to reconcile that broken child we saw with the poised and polished interviewer we just heard on the tape with Harper. Discussing the tragedy of young men who see suicide as their only escape must have been excruciating for Thalia, but she never faltered. She’s learned to keep her demons under control.” He drained his glass. “That’s no small accomplishment. Mike Braeden recognizes that. My guess is that’s why he hung on so long to an empty marriage.”

  “When it came to helping a troubled child, his first wife was as dogged as Mike. That’s why Mieka has Sylvie Braeden’s photograph where kids can see it at April’s Place. Sylvie always gravitated towards helping the child who wasn’t easy to love — the one with attitude, or with a chip on their shoulder the size of a boulder. There are plenty of kids like that at April’s Place, and Mieka sometimes uses Sylvie’s picture as a way to reach those kids.

  “Sylvie was realistic; she accepted the fact that for every step forward, there would be two steps back. And, of course, most of the time there isn’t a Hallmark ending; the damage is too great. But Sylvie always stayed the course. She said, ‘No matter what happens in the future, those children will always remember there was someone who never gave up on them.’”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, Zack had just left for an appointment with his barber when Alison Janvier called. “Is there a time today when you and I can talk?”

  “How about right now?” I said. “Zack’s getting a haircut, and we’re packed and ready to go to the lake when he gets home.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Ali said. “Jo, I know you’re trying to get out of town, but I need your advice.”

  “Come ahead,” I said, but I had to admit that I was surprised. I was still writing the occasional speech for Alison, but I had slipped quietly and gratefully into the role of consultant. Realizing that working on his mother’s campaign for premier would give him a unique perspective on our province’s political life, Harper was not returning to university until after Christmas. Alison was comfortable delivering her stump speech. It was always well received, and Harper was proving to be a gifted and efficient researcher, providing the information about specific communities that his mother needed to respond knowledgeably during her Q&A sessions.

  I was still contemplating situations in which Alison might need my help when she arrived. She didn’t drink tea or coffee and she turned down my offer of water, so the two of us went to the kitchen, pulled up chairs and got right to it.

  Alison usually wore her shoulder-length hair in a ponytail or low chignon, but that morning her shiny, thick, black hair was loose and still damp from the shower. With her forearms resting in front of her, hands clasped, on the butcher block table, she looked like a schoolgirl poised to deliver a report. “Thalia Monk stayed at our place last night,” she said. “Her mother has emotional problems, and apparently she had a breakdown. Thalia said their housekeeper assured her the situation was in hand, and that her stepfather was staying with friends, so Thalia packed her bag and came to our place.”

  “I didn’t realize she and Harper were that close,” I said.

  Alison’s expression was impassive, but when she spoke, her tone was chilly. “Neither did I, but preparin
g for the interview seems to have brought them together. Thalia said she’s been thinking about moving out of the Braeden home for a while, and last night convinced her it was time to look for her own place. Apparently, she has friends she can stay with until she finds what she needs.”

  “But she didn’t stay with those friends last night.”

  Alison raised an eyebrow. “No, Thalia chose Harper. She said her closest friends are the sons of friends of her stepfather, and she didn’t want to place Mike Braeden in an awkward situation.”

  “Ali, are you concerned about the relationship between Harper and Thalia?”

  “I am, but that’s not why I’m here. Harper’s always been astute at reading people, so I’m trusting him.”

  “You’re a good mother,” I said. “And a wise one. So, what do you need my advice about?”

  “Thalia’s come up with an idea she believes has merit, and she may be right. She’s spoken to the producer of Charlie D’s program, and he’s supporting her idea. For the past week or so, I’ve been handing the microphone to Harper after the Q&A, so he can thank the audience and invite them to join our campaign. Thalia’s been attending our events, and she’s noticed the stacks of sign-up sheets Harper collects after every appearance. She says Harper’s smart, attractive and effective, and he’s offering millennials who are tired of being dismissed as the ‘me, me, me’ generation an appealing example of an alternate way of life.

  “Thalia’s written up a proposal for a podcast series produced by millennials featuring millennials committed to civic and political engagement. Ginny Monaghan is running as an independent in Saskatoon Fairview and both her daughters are working on her campaign. Thalia’s already spoken to Emma and Chloe Monaghan, and they’re in. Clay Fairbairn has approached Patrick Sinclair whose mother is running for the Saskatchewan Party in Swift Current, and he’s keen on the idea.”