by Gail Bowen
I sent Maisie a picture of one of the photos that had been in the filing cabinet of Ellen’s desk. Maisie called back almost immediately and said she would track down Thalia Monk, explain the circumstances in which the photos were discovered and make certain Thalia had a lawyer. Maisie said she’d check with Mike first, but she was certain that’s what he would want. At that point, with Thalia’s consent, either Maisie or Thalia’s lawyer would forward the photo and the information we’d given her to Debbie Haczkewicz.
Maisie called just as we entered the city to say that she had found Thalia, told her that the photos had been discovered and suggested that the next step would be finding a lawyer to be with Thalia when she was questioned by the police.
Thalia recognized that she needed a lawyer, and Maisie introduced her to Katina Posaluko-Chapman, a trial lawyer with the empathy Thalia would need and the intelligence necessary to earn her respect. Maisie had just left the two women alone so they could talk.
In her short life, Thalia Monk had already suffered more than her share of pain, and there was more grief coming her way, but she would not be alone, and that was as much consolation as we could hope for. So, we returned our focus to Ellen Exton and the service ahead.
Few places are more beautiful and more filled with promise than a college campus before the newness has worn off and students are not burdened by work and worries. On that early October day, the grass was still green; the brown-gold leaves were still clinging to trees; students were sitting outside, reading or just chatting; and St. Thomas More College was almost as lovely as its brochure photos.
Many years ago, I had taught a senior class in the contemporary politics of our province at the University of Saskatchewan while I finished research on a book I was writing. At that point in my life, I was a widow at home with two children in university and a teenager, so I treasured moments of quiet reflection, and I’d always found those moments in the chapel here, where the Mass of Resurrection for Ellen Exton would take place. She had completed her undergraduate sixty credit hours prerequisite for admission to the B.A. in journalism at Saint Thomas More (STM).
We were early, but the chapel was filling quickly. Zack always bristled at being escorted to the special seating reserved for the handicapped, but space was at a premium. Zack and I had not known Ellen Exton, but in that hackneyed phrase, we were attending her funeral to find closure, and that meant knowing what we’d lost.
The simple teak box containing Ellen’s ashes was already on a small table on the altar. Beside it was a watercolour of Ellen, painted when she was an undergraduate here. The artist had captured her vibrancy: the intelligence in her deep-set grey eyes and the determination in the set of her generous lips. The watercolour did what all good art does — conveyed in a few moments the essence of the subject and left those who saw the piece with a deeper understanding of what it means to be alive.
Father Gary Ariano was the celebrant of the mass. Sally Love had frequently attended the five o’clock Mass in the months before her death. She had questions about faith, and she and Gary had grown close as they worked together towards answers. Not long before her death, Sally had been baptized and confirmed. By default, I had had the responsibility for Sally’s funeral, and Gary had been, as they say, a godsend in helping me arrange a Catholic funeral. Over the years, we had kept in touch, and as he followed the servers up the aisle with Ellen’s family members close behind, I knew the service would be a comforting one for them.
Anyone who has been involved in electoral politics has attended plenty of funerals, and I was familiar with the Mass of Resurrection. I found solace in the ritual of the confession, the prayers and the Bible readings. Seemingly, Zack, Kam and Charlie were soothed by them too. Gary Ariano read the Gospel — “No one who is alive and has faith in me shall ever die” — with reassuring conviction in his voice, and Zack squeezed my hand.
Charlie was sitting on the other side of me, eyes on the altar. Suddenly his body shot forward in the pew, and he half rose. “Jesus Christ,” he said. Kam too had straightened, his face slack with shock. His voice was a whisper. “It’s Rosemary.”
A tall, very thin woman with shoulder-length greying hair and the long narrow face and elongated ivory neck of a figure painted by Modigliani had stepped to the lectern.
I leaned towards Zack. “The woman about to deliver the eulogy is Rosemary Morrissey.”
Zack’s eyes widened. “I thought she was dead.”
“We all did,” I said. “It seems we were mistaken.”
Rosemary was wearing one of the vibrantly coloured, hand-sewn tunics she favoured. This one was black with cerise and lime trim. She was tanned and clearly in robust good health.
“I treasure all my memories of Ellen Exton,” Rosemary said, and hearing her deep and assured voice again sent a shiver up my spine. Rosemary’s stories about Ellen were warm and affectionate — stories of on-air disasters triumphantly averted; of covering nail-bitingly close all-night election results; of reporting heartbreaking family tragedies; of interviews where subjects suddenly revealed a self that seemed a surprise even to them. Rosemary ended the eulogy with an account of how, despite verbal and physical threats and community condemnation, Ellen had investigated Grant Timberlake’s financial and ethical malfeasance and brought him to justice. In her closing remarks, Rosemary refuted Rudyard Kipling’s reference to journalism as the “dark art” and said that Ellen Exton’s life was proof that “in the hands of a person who loved her craft, journalism could be a shining thing.”
The eulogy was beautifully crafted and beautifully delivered, and as Rosemary stepped from the lectern and returned to her place in the congregation, Charlie said, “What just happened?”
Kam drew a deep breath. “A miracle?”
After that, the Mass of Resurrection continued: the kiss of peace, the celebration of the eucharist, the incensing of the altar and ashes, the post communion prayers and the final prayer for Ellen Exton. “May the angels lead you into paradise.” The mass was over, and the party of mourners followed the servers and Father Ariano back down the centre aisle.
Charlie was quick off the mark. “Kam and I have to talk to Rosemary. We’ll catch up with you and Zack at the reception.” With that, he and Kam streaked down a side aisle that opened into the hall outside the chapel and disappeared.
Zack looked up at me. “Remind me again why there are receptions after funerals,” he said.
“The reception is intended to reconnect mourners with the world of the living.”
“Even if the mourners don’t want to reconnect?” he said.
“Especially if they don’t want to reconnect. Remember how it was for you that November after your partners were murdered.”
“I remember. Jo, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, because I’ve never been sure if it really happened or it was just a fever dream. After Debbie told me they were all dead, did you lay down beside me and say, ‘I love you so much, but I don’t know what to do’?”
“That really did happen,” I said. “You had a temperature of 104, and you’d just been hit by news that severed you from the life you’d known for almost three decades. I was so frightened.”
“But you were there. Every time I woke up you were there, and later when the truth about what had happened was finally sinking in, you and Taylor were always there, and that made all the difference.” Zack turned his wheelchair into the aisle that Kam and Charlie had used. “My turn to return the favour,” he said. “Let’s go.”
* * *
We had no trouble finding the reception. The crowd who’d attended the funeral were all headed in one direction. When the scent of good coffee drifted down the hall, we knew we were close, and when I saw Father Gary Ariano waiting for us in the hall, I knew we’d arrived.
Gary and I were in early middle age when we met, but Sally had been dead for seventeen years, and Gary and I were
both visibly older. His dark hair was now shot through with grey, and the laugh lines around his eyes had deepened, but he still moved with the easy grace of the star basketball player he and his brother, Lou, had both been in college, and he still had a great smile.
After we greeted each other and I introduced Zack, Gary plunged right in. “I spotted you in the chapel, Joanne. I was looking forward to getting caught up, but first I have a question. Is your friend, the man who was sitting next to you, all right? He seemed disturbed.”
“Actually, Charlie’s not just a friend; he’s our son-in-law. I take it you heard his outburst.”
Gary’s eyes were amused. “People are always surprised at how much we can hear from up there. When your friend said ‘Jesus Christ,’ I thought he might have been having a spiritual awakening.”
Zack’s reply was thoughtful. “That might be a valid interpretation,” he said. “When we came into the chapel today, Joanne, Charlie, our friend Kam and I all believed that Rosemary Morrissey was dead. Seeing her step up to the lectern to deliver the eulogy did seem miraculous.”
“I imagine it did,” Gary said. “I take it there’s a story there.”
“There is,” I said. “But it’s a long one, best saved for another time, and judging by the expectant looks aimed in our direction, I think people are waiting for you to say a prayer, so they can eat.”
Gary glanced around him. “And you’re right,” he said. “Are you going to be in Saskatoon for a while?”
“No, we’re going back to Regina later this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry. I was hoping we would have a chance to get together.”
“There’ll be plenty of chances in the future,” I said. “Our daughter Taylor is moving to Saskatoon Thanksgiving weekend. And — you’ll like this — she’s moving into Sally’s old studio across the river.”
Gary brightened. “Ten minutes away on my bike. Please give Taylor my contact information. If she needs help with anything, I’m here.”
“That’s reassuring,” Zack said.
“I’m a hopeful guy,” Gary said. “Taylor’s birth mother was a friend, and the mother who raised Taylor is a friend. I’m hoping there’s a place somewhere in Taylor’s orbit for me.”
“Knowing our daughter, I’m sure Taylor will find that place,” Zack said. “After seeing you in action today, Father Ariano, nothing could please me more.”
The men shook hands, Gary smiled, touched my arm and went back to work.
Zack was pensive as Gary walked away. “Sometime I’d like to hear his story,” he said.
“I bet he’d like to hear your story too,” I said. “That’s what the future’s for.”
Zack looked around the room. “In the meantime, there are a couple of young lawyers I’d like to get your opinion on.”
“Why?”
“The firm is going gangbusters. I’ve been mulling over the possibilities of opening a branch in Saskatoon.”
“Exactly how long have you been mulling?”
Zack checked his watch. “About ten minutes.”
Ellen Exton’s parents had a group of mourners with them and more waiting, so Zack and I introduced ourselves to the young lawyers, who were pleased as punch to have the senior partner of Falconer Shreve seek them out, and to some people I knew from the old days when I was doing the political panel for Nationtv.
When it was time for us to move on yet again to other conversational partners, Zack said, “I don’t know about you, but it’s been a long day, and I’d like to get on the road.”
“So would I,” I said. “But we can’t leave without Kam and Charlie, and they and Rosemary obviously have a lot of unfinished business to deal with. I guess we’ll just have to find ourselves some other hapless soul to glom on to and wait.”
We didn’t have long to wait. Ten minutes later, Charlie, Kam and Rosemary Morrissey came through the entrance to the reception area. They seemed at ease with one another; apparently, whatever fences needed mending had been mended.
Rosemary and I greeted each other cordially. She looked healthy, rested and at peace. “It’s good to see you again, Joanne. It’s been a few years.” As I’d noticed during the eulogy, Rosemary’s voice had lost none of its deep, rich resonance.
“It has,” I agreed. “You’re looking well.”
“As are you,” she said, “And I understand congratulations are in order to both you and Zack on your marriage.”
“Joanne and I have been married for a while now,” Zack said, “but congratulations are always welcome. It’s nice to see you again, Rosemary. I was on a show you produced a few years back, and it was a lot of fun.”
Charlie raised his hands, palms out. “Enough tripping down memory lane,” he said. “There is much to discuss, and Rosemary has a plane to catch. I thought we’d find an empty classroom and make the most of the time we have.”
“Let’s not waste time roaming the halls in search of an empty classroom,” I said. “I’ll ask Gary Ariano. He teaches at STM, and he’s standing right over there. Hang tight.”
Once again, Gary proved to be a godsend. Within minutes we were in an elevator headed for the priests’ common room on the third floor.
I think you’ll find this more congenial than a classroom,” Gary said, as he unlocked the door. “Joanne’s been here before, so she can show you where everything is. The bar is well stocked, and there’s always something to eat. Help yourselves. I’ll leave the key with Joanne. When you’re finished, come back to the reception, so I can introduce you to Ellen’s parents, and we can say our goodbyes.”
When Gary closed the door, I turned to the others. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I would really like a drink.”
Zack wheeled towards the bar. “What can I get everybody?”
“I’ll have a scotch on the rocks,” Rosemary said. “And please make it a good one. A friend of the Extons is driving me to the airport, so I won’t be getting behind the wheel.”
“Speaking of getting behind the wheel,” Kam said. “Unless somebody else wants to, I’m happy to drive back to Regina.”
“You’re my hero,” I said. “Zack, I’ll have what Rosemary’s having.”
“I’ll have an IPA,” Charlie said. “And Kam’s my hero too.”
“I’m on it,” Zack said.
The priests’ common room had a wall of windows with an enviable view of the campus. Apart from that, the ambience was strictly 1960s recreation room: a worn but comfortable leather couch, three lounge chairs, four easy chairs arranged around a round coffee table, an oversized TV, a very large aquarium and a wet bar.
While Zack got the drinks, I emptied a box of Goldfish crackers into a bowl and placed it on the table with some napkins and coasters. After we’d picked up our beverage of choice, we took our places around the coffee table. I noticed Zack had positioned his chair to face Rosemary.
“Our time is limited, and I don’t know what you three covered before you came to the reception, so I have one question for Rosemary, and we’ll take it from there,” Zack began. “Rosemary, are you aware there are police investigations into the murders of Patti Morgan and Ellen Exton?”
“I am.”
“Do I have your permission to tape our conversation and hand it over to the police if necessary?”
“You have my permission.”
Zack smiled. “Good, that will simplify matters. Could you state your contact information please?”
Rosemary gave Zack her street address, the address of her place of employment, her cellphone number and her work number. All were in Winnipeg.
She was working for the local station of a private media company that was a rival of MediaNation’s. Her responsibilities were essentially the same as those she’d had in her position at MediaNation, but they were on a smaller scale for a smaller salary. She added that she was content
and optimistic about the future.
“We’re all glad to hear that,” Zack said, “especially because we are all aware of the ordeal you endured during your last weeks at MediaNation. I know it will be painful, but could you describe what happened during that time?”
Rosemary took a large sip of scotch. “I’ll describe what happened, but with the caveat that I’m still unsure about exactly what did happen.”
Zack’s voice was encouraging. “Just do your best.”
“In that case, I have to start by saying that what I believed was happening then is not what I’m now relatively certain actually happened, so I’m going to begin at the ending.
“Kam and Charlie have been filling me in on events here. They tell me that when I disappeared after the termination, everyone assumed I was travelling. And that was true. I was in terrible shape, physically and emotionally. I couldn’t seem to hold a thought. It was as if my brain had fragmented. I seriously considered suicide and then I decided to give myself a month, and if nothing had changed . . .” She shrugged. “Well, you can fill in the blank.
“In the spring I’d purchased a ticket to Bequia. I was planning a holiday after our new slate of programs was safely launched in the fall. After I was terminated, I needed a quick and easy way out, so I simply changed the date of my flight.
“Bequia is part of Saint Vincent and the Grenadines in the Caribbean. It’s a small island, seven square miles with a population of around five thousand and it is beautiful.
“I have very little memory of what I did to pass my days and nights there, but one day I was lying on the beach and I realized that I was better — not wholly better, but I could feel the fragments starting to come together, coalescing.
“When the month was over, I called a friend in Winnipeg and explained my situation. She worked for the company that employs me now, and she arranged for me to have a trial period in my current position. I was on my way back.