An Image in the Lake: A Joanne Kilbourn Mystery

by Gail Bowen

  Jill sat on the edge of the bench. “That’s all we know,” she said. There was a half-empty glass of pirate’s grog on the table. Jill picked it up and drained it. The grog did the job. The colour returned to Jill’s face, and her eyes lost their three-mile stare. She turned to Charlie. “Kam’s at the station, putting together a tribute to Ellen. We should be there to give him a hand.”

  Charlie D looked over to Mieka. “Go,” she said. “We’re fine.” Our daughter gave Zack and me an assessing look. “Zack, Charlie told me you’d offered to handle Ellen’s case gratis, and that you went with him to the police station to report that Ellen was missing. You did everything you could, and Mum, it’s your birthday. Salvage what you can of what’s left of the day.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As soon as we came through our front door, Zack took my hand. “I know you’re feeling shitty, but I have a thought. We still have that bottle of George Dickel. What would you say to three fingers of bourbon?”

  “I’d say that I’m glad you have big fingers.”

  Zack chuckled. “I’ll get the drinks. Let’s go into the family room and put on the fireplace.”

  When Zack came back with the drinks and handed me mine, he said, “So, what do we drink to?”

  “To Ellen,” I said. “The woman we never knew.”

  I breathed in the old-wood scent of the bourbon and then sipped. Warmed by the bourbon and the heat from the fireplace, we were quiet for a long while. Finally, I broke the silence. “Zack, do you want to talk about Ellen?’

  When he didn’t respond, I thought I’d hit another brick wall, but my husband surprised me. “Let’s talk,” he said, “because this has knocked me off base, and I don’t understand why. God knows you and I have both experienced loss, but we knew the ones we lost. We knew their past, and we had ideas about what their futures might hold if they were lucky. But we never knew Ellen Exton. All we have is her name and some random facts. Nothing. But, Jo, this has really gutted me.”

  “Robertson Davies has a line in one of his novels,” I said. “‘When one human creature dies, a whole world of hope and memory and feeling dies with him.’”

  Zack sipped his bourbon. “And all we have to connect us to Ellen’s world of hope and memory and feeling are the names of her cats.”

  I smiled. “Mary and Mr. Grant.”

  “Named after characters in a TV show that aired fifty years ago, but offered Ellen the pattern for a meaningful life.” Zack had a beautiful mouth, full-lipped and sensual, but at that moment his lips were twisted with pain. “And she almost made it,” he said. “She almost had the life she’d dreamed of, but someone decided to stop her.”

  “We don’t know that Ellen never had the life she dreamed of,” I said. “According to Charlie and Kam, she was a terrific producer, and her colleagues respected her. They say she wasn’t gregarious, but she had good friends like Rosemary and Kam. Ellen seems to have chosen a path that took her exactly where she wanted to be.” I gave him a sidelong glance. “Not everybody wants to live a big life.”

  Zack grimaced. “Ouch — a palpable hit from the woman I love.”

  “It wasn’t a dig, just a comment. You were born to live a big life, but not everyone is.” I sipped my bourbon. “I don’t suppose you ever watched The Mary Tyler Moore Show.”

  “No, was it good?”

  “It was very good: smart and funny, but most importantly, it showed a single woman who loved her work having a fulfilling life that was just the right size for her. When Mary Tyler Moore died a few years ago, I was astounded at the number of women who said that her character of Mary Richards freed them to live the lives they wanted to live.”

  Zack seemed pensive. “You know, I never really thought about what women wanted until I met you, and then you wanted me, so I knew all I needed to know.”

  I laughed. “You really are incorrigible.”

  “Maybe, but I made you laugh.”

  “Let’s keep that good vibe going and watch a couple of episodes of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. They’re only about twenty-four minutes each, but they’ll help you understand Ellen Exton, and they’ll make us both laugh.” As we watched the first episode in which Mary moves to Minneapolis and is interviewed by Lou Grant for a job in the newsroom, I could feel Zack relax. When it was over, I said. “Are you up for another one?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? I don’t know whether it’s the George Dickel or Mary and Lou, but I’m starting to feel human again.”

  After we’d watched the classic “Chuckles Bites the Dust,” Zack said, “Okay, I’m hooked.”

  “Me too,” I said. “But let’s get into our robes, and I’ll make us some tea and toast.”

  We’d just finished watching a fifth episode when our landline rang. Only our children and close friends used the landline, so I picked up. It was Mieka.

  “I wanted to make sure you two were okay. You looked a little wiped when you left the party.”

  “We were wiped. I think we all realized that Ellen was probably dead, but hearing the words was a body blow. We’re doing better now.”

  “So, what are you up to?”

  “We’re in the family room with our robes on, having tea and toast and watching reruns of The Mary Tyler Moore Show.”

  “Maddy will be happy to hear that you’re engaging in age-appropriate behaviour,” Mieka said. Her voice grew serious. “It’s going to be a rough week, but we’ll hang in there, Mum.”

  “You bet.”

  “Charlie wants to talk to you both, so I’m putting you on speakerphone.”

  Our son-in-law’s normally soothing dark honey voice was jagged with emotion. “Not much news really. I just wanted you to know that the final twelve minutes of tomorrow’s show will be a tribute to Ellen. Kam, Jill and I put something together that feels right. All that’s left is finding the right sign-off music.”

  “What kind of music did Ellen like?” I asked.

  “Another sin of omission for me,” Charlie said. “I haven’t a clue about Ellen’s taste in music. But Kam remembered that on the first Charlie D in the Morning show, Ellen gave me a five-minute primer on What Not to Do on Live Radio.”

  Zack was surprised. “You’d had your own call-in show in Toronto for what — thirteen years?”

  “And MediaNation had publicized that heavily in the announcement that I was taking over the late unlamented Jared Delio’s spot, but the bit Ellen and I did was light-hearted: stuff like treat every mic as a live mic and don’t sit too close to it or you’ll pop your Ps. I was surprised at how much fun it was. Ellen had a pleasing radio voice and, as you’ll hear tomorrow, a surprisingly sly wit. The chemistry between us on-air was good, and when Jill asked why the show hadn’t used Ellen and me together more, I didn’t have an answer.

  “I should have pushed for it, and Ellen would have loved it, but I didn’t. And she would have loved hearing the tributes we’ve taped from her colleagues. I think she would have been surprised at how much she meant to people.”

  “Realizing that you’ll never have a chance to say all the things you should have said is like water torture,” Zack said. “Drip, drip, drip, and it never ends.”

  I took his hand and mouthed the word “Don’t.”

  Zack nodded acknowledgement. “Jo just gave me the ‘put a sock in it’ look, so moving right along. Jo told me that Ellen saw the character of Mary Richards in The Mary Tyler Moore Show as a role model. We’ve been watching reruns tonight, and the show’s theme music might work for the tribute to Ellen.”

  “I’ll check that out,” Charlie said. “I never figured you for an MTM fan, Zack, but you’re a man of surprises. I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Despite the tragedy, Zack and I knew our only option was to keep on keeping on. He had a case coming to trial in November, so after breakfast, he headed for Falconer Shreve,
and I headed for our dining room to tackle the gifts that had arrived after the debut of Sisters and Strangers and were still unopened.

  My friend and Sisters and Strangers co-writer Georgie Shepherd had alerted me to a tradition of theatre that Rosamond Burke, who had been a stage actor for over seven decades, carried over to the work she did before the camera. The tradition of cast and behind-the-scenes colleagues exchanging gifts on opening night was a lovely one, and as the writers who had finished the script for the series, Georgie and I had taken our responsibility for choosing exactly the right gift seriously.

  In the course of the series, the painting of the flying blue horses that Sally made after seeing the wild horses on Saugeen First Nation reserve with her father and the handmade birchbark box decorated with porcupine quills she and Des brought back for me had become emblematic of Sally’s life and mine. Sally was the sister who saw the magic, and I was the one who stayed home and found another kind of joy.

  Taylor had etched images of the flying blue horses into a zinc plate, and a printing company had produced numbered prints of the piece bearing Taylor’s signature. We had purchased birchbark porcupine quill boxes from Saugeen women to complete the gift.

  These gifts would bring back memories of a time that was special for us all, and as I unwrapped the gifts from the people with whom we had worked, I was glad we’d made the effort.

  The gift of the director, Ainsley Blair, was a handsomely bound copy of the scripts for the six episodes of the series, complete with director’s notes. The other gifts all seemed like companion pieces to Ainsley’s. Edie Gunn, the locations manager, sent an album of stunning photographs of the cabin and the virgin forest in Northern Saskatchewan where the exterior scenes were shot; the musical director, David McIntyre, gave a copy of the score for the series and a CD of the music; Hal Dupuis’s gift was a slender polished leather briefcase containing copies of the sketches he had made of the costumes. Mine was inscribed with the initials “JES” because he always thought of me as Joanne Ellard. His gift had a special resonance for me because Hal had based his designs on the photographs and home movies I’d provided. The costumes, accurate down to the last pearl button on Nina Love’s opera gloves, replicated clothing that had been worn either by me or someone close to me on the most joy-filled or pain-filled moments of my life. I wasn’t ready yet to see them all again, so I slid the sketches back into the briefcase.

  Rosamond Burke’s gift was a DVD in a silver case embossed with the series’ title and the dates of the shoot. Rosamond’s calling card was included; on the back, she’d written the download link. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it didn’t stop me from going to our home office, picking up my laptop and keying in the link.

  Throughout the shoot, Rosamond had a breathtakingly handsome young assistant named Narek at her beck and call. Someone said he was a filmmaker, but the exact nature of his duties was somewhat nebulous. He was never without his phone and he had dropped into the writers’ room several times and asked Georgie and me for permission to film us as we talked about our work.

  Georgie and I had assumed Narek was making a souvenir video for Rosamond, but as it turned out he really was a filmmaker and a skilled one. He’d edited the footage of each of us at work into a striking and revealing thirty-minute overview of the making of Sisters and Strangers, which included our informal comments about what working on the series meant to each of us. I was so absorbed in the video that it took me a moment to realize that someone was ringing the doorbell.

  It was Alison Janvier, and her look was definitely uptown. Her shining black hair was twisted into a classic low chignon, and she was wearing a smart pinstripe business suit and black patent stilettos.

  “Wow,” I said. “Dressed to impress. Come in.”

  “Is this a bad time for you? I was driving past your street, and I thought I’d take a chance and see if you were home.”

  “I’m home and I’m glad to see you. Come in.”

  As soon as Ali was inside, she kicked off her stilettos and groaned with relief. “Why do people wear those things anyway?”

  “Beats me,” I said. “But they do look swank.”

  “I guess I wasn’t born for swank,” she said. “Could we please sit down somewhere?”

  “Come into the dining room. I was just unwrapping packages from people who worked on Sisters and Strangers. It’s a tradition on opening night.”

  Ali sank into one the chairs gratefully. “I watched the show Friday night,” she said. “Joanne, it was so moving. I watched it again with Harper on Saturday. I know you were involved with the writing. You must be very proud.”

  “Proud and also relieved. It was a story that needed to be told, but it was painful watching my life become public.”

  Alison’s laugh was short and dry. “I may be facing that problem myself. Remember those questions during my Q&A sessions about why I didn’t have an abortion when I got pregnant at sixteen?”

  “Of course, but I thought that ended when Maisie put the fear of God into Ronan Farquhar and told him to tell his cohort that they were on her radar. Has the gang resurfaced?”

  “No. Thalia Monk and Clay Fairbairn are working on their podcast about our campaign, and they seem genuinely committed to the idea of getting people in their generation involved in social activism and politics.”

  “Then where’s the threat coming from?’”

  “There’ve been rumours about the circumstances around my pregnancy for weeks. My guess is that the University Park Road Gang put the rumours out there, and that despite the fact that the cohort dropped it, the rumours have developed a life of their own.”

  “That happens,” I said. “But when rumours run out of oxygen, they die. I guess you’ll just have to wait it out.”

  “My major concern in all this is Harper. He doesn’t know the truth about how he was conceived. I made a mistake by not telling him. I know that now, but I’ve come to dread the Q&A sessions, waiting for someone to ask my opinion about abortion in the case of rape.”

  “If the question hasn’t arisen by now, it’s not going to,” I said. “Until your campaign began, you and the man who raped you were the only people who knew what happened, and the number of people who know now can be counted on the fingers of one hand.”

  “It’s not that simple.” Alison had placed her messenger bag on the floor beside her. She picked up the bag, pulled out a brown mailing envelope and removed two high school yearbooks. “This envelope was in a tray we have for mail at the campaign office,” she said. “The yearbooks are proof that something I kept secret for nineteen years is no longer a secret.”

  She opened the 2001 yearbook and turned it to the page of teachers’ photos. The picture of Dylan K. Beveridge was circled in black Sharpie. Ali opened the second yearbook to the page of teachers’ photos and handed it to me. The 2020 yearbook was from a high school in a town two hundred kilometres west of Saskatoon, and the photo of a teacher named Dylan Kyle had also been circled in black Sharpie. Dylan Kyle was twenty years older than Dylan K. Beveridge, but he was indisputably the same man, the man I presumed had raped Ali.

  “There was no note?” I said.

  Ali shook her head. “Just the yearbooks, but Joanne, they were enough to convey the message loud and clear.”

  “What message did they convey?”

  “That the sender knows the truth,” she said, and for the first time since I’d met her, she sounded defeated.

  “I understand why seeing those yearbooks is chilling,” I said, “but Ali, there’s no indication that whoever sent the yearbooks is planning to do anything further with what they’ve learned. There are no threats or demands.

  “I don’t know what game the person who sent this is playing. But I do know the only weapon they have against you is the threat to tell Harper the truth about his conception — and the fact his biological father is alive and living
four hours from here. If you tell Harper everything, the game will be over.”

  Ali leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms towards the ceiling. “I’m starting to unknot and it feels so good. Thanks for listening, Joanne, and thanks putting the situation into perspective.”

  “You’re welcome, but you would have worked this out yourself. I just saved you some time. Speaking of . . .” I glanced at my watch. “Charlie D in the Morning is having a tribute to Ellen Exton. It’s going to be on in about two minutes, and I’d like to hear it.”

  “So would I,” Alison said. “Would you mind some company?”

  “I’d welcome it,” I said.

  Charlie had said that he, Kam and Jill had put together something for Ellen that “felt right,” and they’d been successful. The memories Ellen’s colleagues shared about working with her were never mawkish, but their sense of what they had lost was palpable. Ellen’s five-minute primer with Charlie on What Not to Do on Live Radio was a lot of fun. Her voice, low and alive with genuine interest in the conversation, was compelling. When Charlie said the show had missed a beat by not taking full advantage of Ellen’s warm on-air presence, he’d tapped into the bottomless well of regret that comes with the knowledge that there will be no second chances.

  Charlie had taken Zack’s suggestion that the farewell to Ellen include the musical theme of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, the program that had so powerfully informed Ellen’s life. The song hints subtly that Mary Richards’s past was not all sunshine and roses, but is resolutely upbeat and ends with a statement of faith in the future: “You’re gonna make it after all.”

  When I turned off my laptop, I had to swallow hard before I turned back to Ali.

  She too was visibly moved. “That is so sad,” she said. “But Ellen would have known what she was doing. She obviously decided the story she was working on was worth the risk.”