An Image in the Lake: A Joanne Kilbourn Mystery

by Gail Bowen

  The baptism was five days away, and I was free until Zack came home. I picked up my phone and called Mieka. After we’d exchanged news, I said, “I’m calling to tell you that I’m just about to wash Desmond’s gown for the baptism. Now that I’ve told you what I’m going to do, I can’t back out.”

  “Mum, if it’s such a big job, I’ll do it.”

  “No, you won’t. It’s not a big job; I’m just being dramatic. I’ll bring the dress over when I’m finished. That’ll probably be around the time the school bus drops off the ladies, so I’ll be able to get the lowdown on what’s happening at Pius X.”

  The process turned out to be simple but messy. It involved a lot of time bent over a bathtub filled with a combination of lukewarm water and pre-dissolved Woolite and then rinsing the gown under a very gentle shower until it was soap-free. I was finishing phase three — flattening the dress on a thick towel in a sunny place until it dried — when the doorbell rang.

  I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and both were soaked, but when the doorbell rang again, I answered it. Thalia was on the front porch. “I’ve caught you at a bad time,” she said. “I tried to call but . . .”

  “I turned my phone off,” I said. “I was doing something that demanded my complete attention, but I’m finished now. Come in, and I’ll show you what I was doing.”

  Thalia followed me into the living room where the gown was drying. As we examined the dress, I described the process. She was intrigued. “It was worth the effort,” she said. “That really is beautiful. Is that lace?”

  “It’s called whitework, and it’s a kind of embroidery that involves drawing the thread from the material of the piece of clothing the sewer is working on through the material itself. I just looked that up earlier this afternoon, so it may not be wholly accurate.”

  “No, that was a good explanation. I think I understand,” Thalia said, and I was struck again by the vulnerability in her low husky voice. “It must have taken the people who did that work forever to complete all those tiny stitches.”

  “I’m sure it did, and I’m sure the people doing the whitework were women,” I said. “I read once that girls in almost every culture are set tasks like needlework to teach them the patience they’ll need for the tedium of raising children and running a household.”

  After we both laughed, Thalia said, “There’s so much I need to tell you. On the way over, I was trying to think of the right words, and here we are laughing together about women’s work. I didn’t expect that.”

  “Neither did I,” I said. “Let me just change into some dry clothes. I’ll make us tea, and we can talk some more.”

  When I came back to the kitchen, Thalia was looking at the photos of the grandkids on the refrigerator door.

  “So, this is real life,” she said.

  It was a curious comment, and I was taken aback. “It’s my real life,” I said. “There are other options.”

  Thalia nodded. “I’m beginning to understand that.”

  “Let me make the tea, and we can sit down and wait ‘till it has colour,’ as an old friend of mine used to say.”

  Thalia smiled. “I wanted to thank you and your husband and daughter-in-law for arranging for Katina Posaluko-Chapman to be with me when I talked to the police about the photographs.”

  “You needed support, and Katina’s an excellent lawyer and a fine person.”

  “She is, and I was very grateful to have her by my side. Knowing others were seeing the photographs was difficult, but I’d already prepared myself. During one of the many times Patti was castigating me for being a whore who ruined Nicholas’s life, she told me she’d given the photos to Rosemary Morrissey. The idea that Rosemary had seen those photos made me sick. I was afraid that other people might see them. Then I realized that the worst thing that I could imagine happening to me had already happened: Nicholas was dead. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore.”

  “Thalia, you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but were the other summer interns — the young men who were your friends in the cohort — aware that you were no longer afraid of the photos coming to light?”

  For the first time since we’d begun talking, Thalia was visibly shaken. “They never knew about the photographs,” she said. “They never knew that Nicholas and I were lovers.”

  Thalia’s candour surprised me. When I had opened the front door and saw her on our porch, I knew whatever had brought Thalia to our house would involve discussing her relationship with Nicholas. I anticipated that we would both find a circumspect way of referring to another kind of love that, in Lord Alfred Douglas’s words, “dared not speak its name,” but Thalia hadn’t shied away from speaking the truth. Her statement was direct, and it was a relief to realize that whatever else had happened, Thalia would not lie to deny a truth that had informed her life.

  “Could anyone else have told the members of the cohort about the photos of you and Nicholas together?”

  “Obviously Patti knew,” Thalia said, “but Patti was terrified that something would stain Nicholas’s memory. I have no idea what she was thinking when she gave the photographs to Rosemary. I know now that Rosemary gave them to Ellen Exton, but there would have been no reason for Ellen to tell Clay or Ronan about them. If they had found out something, they would have told me. But whatever, the cohort is no more. We’d all outgrown it, so I decided the time had come to disband.”

  “And the others accepted that?”

  “They had to,” she said simply. She paused. “You said you had some good news?”

  “I do. The police are no longer investigating Mike Braeden. They’ve closed your mother’s case. They’re accepting the coroner’s opinion that there’s a likelihood that Patti brought about her own death.”

  Thalia exhaled slowly. “I guess I should feel something about that, but I don’t.” Her face became animated again. “But I am very happy that the police are no longer investigating Mike. He was never anything but kind and concerned about me. More often than I can tell you, when Patti started one of her tirades about me being a whore who ruined Nicholas’s life, Mike would try to calm her down. If she didn’t stop, he’d take her into another room or even out of the house for a walk.

  “I’ve thought about this a lot, Joanne, and I’ve come to realize that if it hadn’t been for Mike Braeden, I would have accepted my mother’s evaluation of me. He’s a good man who tried to help a woman at the lowest point in her life and her daughter who was confused, angry and making nothing but bad choices. He was heroic. And his reward was getting his face slashed and watching the life and reputation he’d spent years building ripped out from under him. It was so unjust, and yet he never once blamed me.”

  “Thalia, no one who knows the truth blames you.”

  “I blame me,” she said. “What I did to Taylor was mean and small and destructive. All I can hope is that the damage I did to her life can somehow be repaired.”

  I thought of Taylor bounding into the kitchen that morning, barefoot, paint-smeared and exuberant. “Taylor’s fine. She’s finding her way to a life that will fulfill her,” I said. “How about you? Have you thought about what you’re going to do next?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve pretty well screwed up my life.”

  “You’re twenty-one years old, Thalia. You have at least sixty more years to screw up.”

  Her eyes widened, and she started to laugh. “That’s right, isn’t it. The rest of my life is a tabula rasa, and I’m the one who will decide what message I want my life to convey.”

  “That’s exactly right. You have a blank slate and all the time in the world to figure out how you’re going to fill it.”

  Thalia looked around the kitchen as if she were seeing it for the first time. “I didn’t want to come here today, but I’m so glad I did.”

  “I’m glad you came too,” I said. “Thalia, I couldn�
�t help noticing that you’re not wearing your amulet.”

  “I have to move on,” she said, and her voice was small and tentative.

  “How’s that working for you?”

  “Not very well, but I’m trying,” she said. She reached into her purse, pulled out a small clutch evening bag, opened it and took out the necklace. “It helps to keep it close.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Mike gave you that evening bag, didn’t he?”

  Thalia nodded. “It was his wife Sylvie’s. When I called to tell Mike the police found my necklace, I told him I would try to break myself of the habit of always wearing it. Not long after that, he came by the Fairbairns with this lovely little purse. He said Sylvie would want me to have it as a reminder that life gets better.”

  “That’s exactly what Sylvie would have said.” I touched her hand. “Thalia, keep that thought close.”

  * * *

  My plan for the rest of the day was ambitious. I would put up my feet and read until the baptismal dress had dried and then I would wrap the gown in tissue, place it in a box and deliver it to Mieka’s, where I would play with Des until the ladies’ school bus arrived, get caught up on the news from Pius X and come home, make the martinis and wait for Zack.

  With a few minor adjustments, everything went according to plan. The muslin dried quickly, and as I wrapped the baptismal gown in tissue paper and slipped it into the box, I thought of our newest grandson, snug in his godparents’ arms at the font in the cathedral.

  Des was sleeping so I missed playtime, but Mieka and I talked about the lunch we would be having at their place after the service. She and Charlie had invited Jill and Kam Chau to join the party. “Are you playing matchmaker?” I said.

  “Nope. I’ve tried before, but the results have always been disastrous. I think Jill and Kam are destined to be good friends and that will be enough. Jill offered to bring dessert on Sunday, and Kam offered to bring a special dessert for the kids, so the invitation has already paid off.”

  After the school bus dropped them off, Madeleine and Lena raced up the front walk, breathless with news. “There was a lockdown at the school today.”

  Mieka had inherited my penchant for catastrophic thinking. “Did someone inside the school have a gun?”

  The girls frowned. “Of course not,” Madeleine said. “You know our principal would never allow that.”

  Mieka tried a laugh. “Of course he wouldn’t. Mo St. Amand has been at Pius since you two were tadpoles, and he’s super vigilant.”

  “So, what did happen?” I said.

  “The teachers always call the roll after lunch and when the grade one teacher called the roll, one of her pupils — a boy — was missing,” Madeleine said. “They locked all the doors to the outside, and everybody looked for him.

  “The grade eights,” she added proudly, “were sent out to check the playground. The boy was not there. Mo called his house, but no one was home. So, they called the parents’ work numbers. They’re both nurses, and they were both in surgery. So, Mo called the police. When the police went to the boy’s house and knocked at the door, there was no answer.”

  Lena’s impatience had worn thin. “Then the police went in the backyard, and there was the boy sitting on the swing eating a sandwich.”

  Madeleine glared at her sister. “Let me finish the story, Lena. The boy said he’d had too much school, so he went home.”

  “That’s a great story,” I said. I stood. “And you know what? I’ve had a day like that myself, and I think it’s time for me to do what that boy did and give you all a hug and head for home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When Zack came through the front door at five o’clock, the martinis were made; the casserole of boeuf bourguignon Mieka had given us was in the oven; the table was set; and I was looking forward to a long evening filled with nothing much at all.

  I helped Zack off with his jacket. “Something smells amazing,” he said.

  “Mieka gave us a casserole of boeuf bourguignon as a reward for washing Des’s baptismal gown.”

  “Sound like we came out ahead on that deal.”

  I remembered waiting for the Woolite to dissolve in boiling water. “It was a fair exchange,” I said. “Taylor’s still working on the mural, so we have plenty of time before dinner. Why don’t you turn on the fireplace, and I’ll get the drinks?”

  “Another fair exchange,” Zack said.

  When we’d settled in the family room and taken our first sips, Zack said, “I have news.”

  “Those are not words I want to hear.”

  “Well, gulp your martini because you’re not going to like these words either. The cellphone the enterprising young William Duncan found belongs to Clay Fairbairn. I only got the broad strokes from Debbie, but I gather the cellphone is a gold mine of information about what the cohort has been up to lately.”

  “The cohort has disbanded,” I said. “Thalia Monk was here this afternoon. She said she’d realized it was time. When I asked her if the other members of the group accepted her decision, she said they had no choice.”

  “She was wrong,” Zack said. “The three remaining members of the University Park Road Gang were determined to keep the band together, and they had a plan.”

  “Zack, I don’t like the direction in which this is heading.”

  “I don’t either, but we can’t change the direction. It’s a fait accompli. Apparently, the late Patti Morgan told the young men that Ellen Exton had photographs of Thalia that Thalia wouldn’t want made public. Patti told them if they could get their hands on those photos, Thalia would do anything they wanted her to do to keep the pictures from being made public.”

  “That’s not good,” I said.

  “MediaNation has a gym for its employees. Clay Fairbairn works out there frequently. As does Kam Chau. Clay was aware that Kam had a key to Ellen Exton’s house to check on her cats on the weekends she was away. Clay took the key from Kam’s locker, had a copy made and returned the key. He, Ronan and Austin were in Ellen’s house the day she was fired. Her habit was to have dinner in the cafeteria, go back to her desk and work an hour or so longer and leave around seven.

  “But the day she was fired, she left early. The cohort members were in her bedroom, going through her drawers when they heard Charlie and Ellen come in. Obviously there are still a lot of gaps to be filled in, but Deb’s theory is that when Charlie left, the cohort boys demanded Ellen give them the photos. Deb thinks that when Ellen said she didn’t have them, Clay didn’t believe her. Apparently, at some point, Ellen started to scream, and that’s when Clay choked her.

  “Oh, God, no.”

  “It doesn’t get better,” Zack said. “Jo, this is just conjecture, but it’s Debbie’s conjecture, so I guess it deserves some credence. Debbie thinks that as soon as it was dark, Ronan and Austin carried Ellen’s body out and buried her in the culvert.”

  There was an afghan beside me on the couch, and I pulled it around me. “This story has a real Alfred Hitchcock ending,” I said. “When Thalia was here, we talked about the photos. She knew that Patti had given them to Rosemary. She said that at first the idea of the photos becoming public terrified her and then she realized that her worst fear — that something would happen to her brother — had already been realized. And that’s when she knew there was nothing more to be afraid of.”

  “So, the photographs were no longer a weapon to keep Thalia in line.”

  “No, Ellen Exton’s death served no purpose, and somehow that makes everything that’s happened even worse.”

  For a long while we just sat, staring at the fireplace and trying to get our bearings.

  Finally, Zack said, “Okay, time for us to get a grip. It’s almost six, and our daughter will soon be joining us for dinner. Next week, she’s moving to Saskatoon. Let’s make this evening as good as we can make it.”
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br />   Zack and I did our best to keep the mood upbeat, but Taylor knew us well, and when she asked what was troubling us, we told her the truth. She seldom drank, but that night when Zack offered to pour her a glass of burgundy because Mieka’s boeuf bourguignon deserved a perfect pairing, Taylor accepted.

  Processing our account of what happened took her awhile. Like us, she was overwhelmed by the horror and futility of Ellen Exton’s death. Finally, she said, “It’s hard to conceive of people you actually know killing another human being. And just because a little group they’d created to make themselves feel worthwhile was in danger of losing its leader.”

  “And it was all for nothing,” I said. “Even if Ellen had been able to give them the photos, nothing would have changed. Thalia was through with the cohort. She’d outgrown it. No matter what the University Park Road boys did, Thalia would have walked away.” I turned to Zack. “Another paper tiger in this tragedy.”

  Taylor looked quizzical. “What’s a paper tiger?”

  “It’s a person or a thing that appears to be threatening, but is really no threat at all,” Zack said. “The example your mum and I were referring to was Patti Morgan’s obsessive fear that if Mike Braeden found proof that the relationship between Thalia and her brother Nicholas was unnatural, he’d make what he’d learned public and sully Nicholas Monk’s reputation. Patti was convinced that Mike would force her to go to a therapist, and the therapist would give her a truth serum that would make her tell everything she knew about Nicholas and Thalia.”

  “The ‘truth serum’ was Patti Morgan’s paper tiger. Her fear of the serum drove all of her erratic and destructive behaviour, and it posed no threat to her at all. In the early ’60s, the so-called truth serum was found to be unreliable, and therapists haven’t used it since then.”