An Image in the Lake: A Joanne Kilbourn Mystery

by Gail Bowen

  “Who would give her a drug that would make her reveal something incriminating about Nicholas. Mike did tell Maisie and me that’s what Patti feared.”

  “A truth serum,” I said. “I remember seeing characters being given that on old TV shows. Did a truth serum ever really exist?”

  “It did. It was called sodium pentothal, and I don’t think psychiatrists have used that since the early ’60s. It shuts off higher brain functions. The theory behind it is that telling a lie is a more complex behaviour than telling the truth, so administering sodium pentothal should induce people to tell the truth.”

  “But it didn’t work?”

  “The problem wasn’t with the drug itself; it was with how the drug had to be administered. Subjects were offered too much information, and they were smart enough to pick out the answer that worked best for them. The results of the tests were unreliable, and since certainty was what sodium pentothal was supposed to produce, psychiatrists just stopped using it.”

  “So, Patti was driven over the edge by her fear of something that could never have happened.”

  “Looks like,” Zack said. “Patti created a paper tiger and her fear of it killed her.”

  “That is so sad. I remember Kam saying that Sunny Side Up, the title Patti gave her program, reflected the way she approached life: she approached everything she did as if she were experiencing it for the first time. And now she’s dead, and that is probably a mercy because there was nothing good ahead for her.”

  * * *

  The twins weren’t the only ones who’d been seduced by fall vegetables at the farmers’ market. Des Love had had a garden on the island, and the gourds he grew always added the perfect seasonal touch to our cottages when we came up for Thanksgiving. It was a nice tradition, and as I filled our old wooden dough bowl with gourds and placed it at the centre of the kitchen table, I smiled at the memory.

  The Webers and Maisie arrived almost simultaneously at noon. Given Mike Braeden’s determination to keep both Patti’s and Thalia’s name out of any plans his lawyers made for his defence, Zack and I had been prepared for opposition from the Webers, but after we settled around the table, Warren cleared his throat and said, “Annie and I have an announcement that should shorten this meeting considerably. Thalia Monk has urged us to use whatever means necessary to clear Mike Braeden of suspicion in Patti Morgan’s death.”

  Maisie and Zack exchanged a glance. “What dark magic did you work to bring that about?” Maisie said.

  “No dark magic,” Annie said. “It was Thalia Monk’s doing.”

  “Okay,” Zack said. “Time to rewind the tape. What happened?”

  Warren picked up a gourd with the fingertips of both hands and turned it so he was able to examine it from all sides. “Amazing,” he said under his breath. Then his focus shifted to Zack. “After you and I spoke, I knew we had to convince Mike to rethink his refusal to let Thalia explain what she knew of her mother’s relationship with him.

  “Hugh Fairbairn had always been close to Mike,” Warren continued. “So, I suggested to Annie that we try to enlist Hugh’s support. Hugh still prefers the landline, so when I called their house, their grandson answered. I said Annie and I wanted to drop by, and Clay said to come ahead.”

  “Both Hugh’s and Julie’s cars were in the driveway,” Annie said. “I crossed my fingers that Julie wouldn’t be the one to answer the door.”

  The smile Warren gave his wife was impish. “And your crossed fingers did the job,” he said. “Julie did not answer the door.”

  “Right,” Annie said. “Thalia Monk answered the door, and I was gobsmacked, but Thalia made it clear from the outset that she was exactly where she needed to be, and that she had the situation well in hand. She guided Warren and me into the living room, indicated the chairs we should sit in, pulled an ottoman close to where we were sitting and said, ‘Here’s what needs to be done.’

  “And then,” Warren said, “cool as a cucumber, that young woman laid out the steps she was prepared to take. She suggested that I ask Maisie and Zack to arrange for her to give a statement to Inspector Debbie Haczkewicz. Her statement would describe in detail Patti Morgan’s irrational fears and risky behaviours. As well, Thalia would attest to the fact that, despite Patti Morgan’s innumerable provocations, Mike Braeden was always an exemplary husband to Patti and stepfather to Thalia. She would give Inspector Haczkewicz a list of people who had witnessed Patti’s irrationality and provocative behaviour and who would swear under oath to the truth of their statements.”

  “And then,” Annie said, “Thalia asked if we had any questions. At first, Warren and I were both too taken aback to say anything. Then Warren asked if Hugh was home, and Thalia said Hugh and his wife were upstairs, but they’d agreed to let her handle the situation and they supported her decision.”

  “I wonder how Thalia pulled that off?” I said. “Julie must have been . . .”

  “Muzzled?” Annie said brightly.

  I laughed. “I was going to say ‘apoplectic’ but ‘muzzled’ is better.”

  “Whether she was apoplectic or muzzled, we didn’t hear a peep out of Julie, and Thalia didn’t need assistance. When she’d decided our meeting was over, she stood and gently but firmly showed us to the door.” Annie shook her head in amazement. “We weren’t there for more than five minutes.”

  Warren and Annie wanted to deliver the news about Thalia’s support to Mike Braeden in person. He was still staying in the Webers’ guest house, so they were driving back to the lake. Zack and Maisie headed to Falconer Shreve to draft a statement for Thalia to send to Debbie Haczkewicz and run through the personnel files of prospective members of their dream team if the worst should happen and Mike was charged with his wife’s death.

  As soon as everyone left, Cindy Hock, our next-door neighbour came by with her three teenage kids. All were carrying floral arrangements and packages that had been sent to me on the day after Sisters and Strangers had its premiere. We were away, so Cindy had signed for the deliveries. It was quite a haul, and I knew dealing with the deliveries must have taken a chunk out of her day. Cindy waved off my apologies; we discussed where donations of floral arrangements would be most appreciated and then Cindy said that she and her family would deliver the flowers, but that they were all counting on a dinner invitation the next time Zack barbecued rolled prime rib.

  Being back in the world of good neighbours and simple problems easily solved was balm to my raw nerves. So was the prospect of dealing with a routine and mindless task. I’d just begun sorting through the gift cards that came with the flowers when our landline rang. I picked up, waiting for a blast from Julie Fairbairn, but my caller was Thalia Monk. She was parked outside our house and needed to talk to Taylor.

  Thalia clearly had an agenda, but there was something a little off about her call. The request was simple, but Thalia had not sounded like herself. Her low husky voice lacked the assurance I’d heard in it at the stew and bannock luncheon or the forcefulness Warren and Annie had experienced the night before. Curious but wary, I told her I’d meet her at the front door.

  Thalia was dressed casually but fashionably in slim-fit black leather pants and a soft-blue, cropped leather jacket. Her cornsilk hair was smooth and shining, but her eyes were downcast. “May I come in?” she said.

  I stood aside. “Of course.”

  She stepped into the hall. “I need to apologize to your daughter.”

  “Taylor’s not here,” I said.

  Thalia seemed stricken. “It wasn’t easy for me to come to your house today . . .”

  “I could pass along a message,” I said.

  She nodded. “Could I please have a glass of water?”

  “I’ll get you one. Come inside with me. It’s chilly out here.”

  When I headed for the kitchen, Thalia followed me. I poured us each a glass of water and then we sat down at the t
able.

  “I watched Sisters and Strangers today,” Thalia said. “All of it. Is it true?”

  “Not every detail, but yes, the story is true.”

  “So, Taylor’s mother, Sally, never wanted her, and after Sally died, you adopted her.”

  I leaned across the table. “Thalia, if you saw all the episodes, you know that Sally was a complex woman with a difficult life. There were no easy choices for her. But yes, after Sally died, I adopted Taylor.”

  Thalia sipped her water. “I never knew any of that,” she said.

  “Would it have mattered?”

  “Yes.” She raised her head so that her extraordinary sapphire eyes met mine. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have needed to hurt her.”

  The awareness was a jolt, but the words came slowly. “You’re Concerned Friend,” I said.

  Thalia’s nod of assent was almost imperceptible.

  “Why did you want to hurt Taylor?”

  “Because life seemed so easy for her. I hadn’t even noticed Taylor until Ronan Farquhar invited her to grad, and she turned him down. Ronan was one of the few friends I had at school, and Taylor’s rejection hurt him.

  “I started tracking her. Social media makes everything so easy. She had it all: a family that wasn’t broken, talent, friends and then finally a romantic relationship with a woman who was as gifted and beautiful as she was. Everyone was happy for Taylor and Vale. Everyone wanted them to have a brilliant future together, and that’s exactly what would have happened. Taylor would have had everything she ever wanted, and that would have been unfair.”

  “Because everything you ever wanted had been taken from you,” I said.

  Thalia ignored my words. “It’s too hot in here,” she said. She glanced down at her jacket and when she spied the front zipper she seemed surprised, and then she pulled the zipper down. She was wearing a white scoop neck T-shirt. When her jacket was open, I saw a chain of small red abrasions around her neck. They appeared to be very like the abrasions Clay Fairbairn said Thalia suffered when she was attacked and her grief amulet was stolen. Thalia ran her index finger carefully over the tiny wounds.

  “Your necklace was never returned to you?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “But touching these reminds me of how much I’ve lost.”

  I walked Thalia to the door. Her eyes seemed slightly unfocused. “Are you all right to drive?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “There’s just been too much.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “There has been too much.”

  As soon as Thalia’s car pulled away, I called Taylor. My call went straight to voicemail; I left a message asking her to call and then I called Zack.

  After I told him about Thalia Monk’s visit and her confession, Zack said, “What a lousy life that girl has had. I’m starting to understand why Mike has been so protective of her.” His focus shifted to our daughter. “Have you talked to Taylor yet?”

  “No. When she’s working, she turns her phone off, so we still have that hurdle to clear.”

  “How do you think she’ll take this?”

  “Honestly, I think she’ll be fine. You and I have talked about Taylor’s clarity about why she and Vale could never have had a future together. Learning that Thalia Monk is Concerned Friend will be a shock, but when Taylor hears Thalia’s rationale for needing to hurt her, she’ll realize how damaged Thalia is, and I think she’ll pity her.”

  Zack’s voice was deep and intimate. “Is that how you feel?”

  “It is, and if you’d seen Thalia today, you would have pitied her too. Zack, she’s so broken. It seems that story she told Clay Fairbairn about being attacked was the truth.” I told him about the marks I’d seen around her neck. “Thalia said that touching the cuts reminded her of how much she had lost.”

  Zack’s sigh was audible. “This just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it?”

  “Seemingly, but the day after tomorrow the twins and I are celebrating our birthdays. Maybe by then the cosmos will have taken a gentle tip.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Two weeks earlier when Zack assured me that he was planning a day of surprises for me on my sixty-second birthday, I reminded him that I don’t like surprises, I’m not crazy about parties and the only birthday parties I truly enjoy are his and those of our kids and grandkids.

  My husband was sanguine. “Your preferences have been taken into account,” he said. “Charlie and Colin’s party is at four o’clock on the big day, and Maisie tells me that although the boys’ choice of a theme changes daily, they seem to have settled on a pirate party. Apart from that, it will just be you and me doing the things you enjoy most. No more questions. All will be revealed on the 29th, when you come back from your run with the dogs.”

  Zack was true to his word. When the dogs and I returned from our run on the 29th, the coffee was perking, and a schedule handwritten on elegant cardstock with a hint of a shimmer had been placed on my breakfast plate. The schedule touched all the bases.

  6:00 a.m. to ???? — Great sex.

  When you’re ready–8:00 a.m. — Breakfast, all your favourites.

  8:00–8:30 a.m. — Highly personal pedicure. Shade of polish: Russet Red (Taylor assures me this is the shade for autumn).

  8:30–10:45 a.m. — Listen to Oscar Peterson and read. Outdoors or indoors, your choice, but my presence is non-negotiable.

  10:45 a.m.–2:00 p.m. — SURPRISE.

  2:15–3:30 p.m. — Nap/greater sex.

  4:00–6:30 p.m. — Pirate themed bday party with family.

  7:00 p.m. to ???? — Nightcap of choice. Even greater sex.

  ???? — Sleep.

  Zack had been watching my face as I perused the schedule. “Sound okay?”

  “Sounds perfect,” I said. “But there’s a lot of ground for us to cover. We should get started.”

  * * *

  On my sixth birthday, I decided I would never again spend my birthday reading a book I hadn’t read before. I’d been given a chapter book that seemed promising but did not deliver, and I’d fought tears of frustration all day.

  Lesson learned. I was spending my sixty-second birthday rereading A.S. Byatt’s The Children’s Story. The day was bright and still, but it was too chilly to sit outdoors, and Zack and I had opted for the family room. Zack was reading William Deverell’s Needles, and when the Oscar Peterson Trio began playing “You Look Good to Me” and my husband chuckled over something he’d just read, I knew I had never been happier than I was at that moment.

  At ten forty-five, Zack slid a bookmark into Needles and said, “Time to change.”

  “Are we going somewhere?”

  “We are.”

  “How dressy is this place?”

  “I’ve never been there, but probably not very. You always look great in that dark green sweater Taylor gave you. Can’t go wrong with that.”

  Ten minutes later, Zack and I were on the Trans-Canada Highway travelling west; I was wearing my dark-green sweater, and there had been no mention of our destination.

  When we passed Grand Coulee, I said, “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

  “Nope. Just kick back, listen to Oscar, Ray and Niels-Henning and ponder what you’d like to order for your birthday lunch.”

  “Pickerel,” I said.

  Zack didn’t comment, so I pressed on. “Does the restaurant we’re going to serve pickerel?”

  My husband raised an eyebrow. “A clever ruse, but not clever enough. Yes, they will have pickerel. That’s all the information you’re getting.”

  There are many fine restaurants in Moose Jaw, and I was surprised when we passed the city without turning off. Forty-five minutes later when we were still on the road, I said, “I’m getting hungry.”

  “There’s an A&W not far from here.”

  “I like their onion
rings,” I said.

  “I do too,” Zack said, “but this is where we leave the highway.”

  I checked for a road sign. There was a small one, but it answered all my questions. “Mortlach,” I said. “We’re going to the Little Red Market Café. I’ve wanted to go there since it opened, but that was at least five years ago. I’d almost forgotten.”

  “I hadn’t forgotten,” Zack said. “And they do have Lac La Ronge pickerel, fried and served on a bed of red beans and rice. It’s one of their signature Cajun and Creole dishes.”

  “Zack, this is really a thoughtful surprise,” I said.

  “I like pleasing you, and the list of things you love to do is modest. At the risk of sounding smug, if we count hearing Oscar Peterson’s trio playing ‘You Look Good to Me,’ you will have experienced five of your passions by midday.”

  I began to count on my fingers. “Running with the dogs. Having sex with you. Reading. Listening to ‘You Look Good to Me.’ And eating fried pickerel.” I moved closer to him. “Well done. You really hit the ball out of the park. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, but there’s more to come.”

  The Little Red Market Café offered everything necessary for a peerless birthday lunch: an intimate and welcoming atmosphere, discreetly attentive service, and food and wine that were beyond sublime. We left the restaurant with warm memories, a box containing two pieces of homemade pecan pie and a solid commitment to the owner that we would return to Mortlach before the snow began to fly.

  When we approached Moose Jaw, Zack said, “Decision time. I checked out the Moose Jaw Art Gallery and their current exhibition is of prairie vernacular folk and contemporary art. It’s something you’d really enjoy, but if we see it now, we’ll cut the time allotted for our next activity. The show’s on for another three weeks, so that can be a pleasure deferred. Your choice.”

  I stretched and yawned. “I’ve had a deeply satisfying lunch, two glasses of Pinot Noir, and you made a promise that I want you to keep. Let’s stay on the highway.”