by Gail Bowen
But there was still the reception. While the caterers set up the tables for the buffet, we gathered in the crush area outside the gallery. Servers with trays of champagne circulated, fostering cheer. Felix handed me a glass. “Flawless performance,” he said. “Did you know that bridesmaids were originally intended as decoys to lure evil spirits away from the bride?”
“Finally, an explanation for all those hideous dresses,” I said.
We exchanged smiles and raised our glasses. The Cuvee Paradis Brut was everything champagne that cost eighty-five dollars a bottle U.S. should be – light, crisp, and astonishingly good, but only a magic elixir could have lifted me above the sticky mud of anxiety and trepidation that had been dragging me down all day. As I looked at my fluted glass, I knew I had two options: keep the champagne coming until I had blotted out the memory of a shambling man with a taste for strong tea and morality or find out what had happened to him. The decision was easy. No other man had ever compared me to Sam Waterston.
I surveyed the room to check on the kids. Taylor was chatting happily with Rapti Lustig’s son, a ten-year-old named Sam who was too kind and too suave to ever compare a young woman to a Chia Pet. Angus and Bryn were silhouetted against the window, holding hands, watching the storm that had begun to rage outside with a force almost as powerful as the hormones of the young. Safe as churches.
There was a pay telephone in the lobby. I took the elevator down, found a quarter in the mad-money pocket of my evening bag, and dialled home.
For the first time that day, there was a new message, but the voice on the other end was not one I wanted to hear. Alex Kequahtooway had been my lover for three years, and to paraphrase the nursery rhyme: when our relationship had been good it was very, very good, but when it went bad, it was horrid.
Alex had always distrusted words, and his telephone message was succinct: he had to talk to me, and I knew his number. I did know his number. I also had no intention of calling it.
Then, as if I needed further proof that when man makes decisions, God laughs, Alex himself walked through the front door of the Mackenzie Gallery. As he stood in the foyer, stamping the snow off his boots, surveying the scene, my mind raced through the kaleidoscope of possibilities that might have brought him out in a blizzard. None of them was good. When his eyes found me, they betrayed nothing, and as he walked towards me, my heart began to pound. “Has something happened to one of the kids?” I asked.
Alex’s obsidian eyes were warm. “No. Your family’s fine, Jo. This is about another matter.” He gestured to a stone bench in the lobby. “Let’s sit down.”
The gallery had a number of benches upon which the weary could share space with a sculptured figure that, reflecting our politically sensitive times, represented the full spectrum of our citizens: male, female, young, old, aboriginal, non-aboriginal, executive, worker. Alex had pointed to my favourite, a pregnant woman in a sundress and sandals, reading a book. He knew that particular bench reminded me of a good time in my own life, but his first words made it clear that chance not memory had determined his choice.
“About an hour ago, we had a call,” he said. “Someone trying to deliver a meat order to the Hotel Saskatchewan ran over a man’s body. In the blizzard, the driver didn’t recognize what he saw as human – he thought it was just a snowbank.”
My nerves tightened. “What’s the connection with me?”
“The deceased had the numbers for both your home and your cell in his pocket, Jo. They were the only local tie-in, so it seemed logical to start with you.”
A flash. Gabe smiling. Wouldn’t it be ironic if this wedding was the start of a real love affair? I covered my face with my hands.
Alex swallowed hard. “So you do know the man.”
“His name is Gabriel Leventhal. He was supposed to be the best man at Jill’s wedding today. He told the groom he was going back to New York City.”
“He didn’t make it,” Alex said stiffly.
“How did he die?”
“They don’t know. The blizzard will make determining the time of death a little tricky, and, of course, the truck driving over him wasn’t exactly a lucky break.”
“For you,” I said furiously. “Not great for him either, but that’s not your concern, is it?”
Alex ignored my outburst. “Were you intimate?’
“Yes,” I said, “but not in any way you’d understand.” I regretted the words immediately, not just because they were intended to wound, but because they were untrue. When I began to weep, Alex rubbed the back of my neck in a gesture of intimacy that evoked times when his touch was all I needed to restore me. More coals heaped upon my head.
CHAPTER
4
When I stopped crying, Alex waited for a moment, then offered me a tissue. Beside me, the stone pregnant woman with her secret knowing smile read on, tranquil and impervious. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just – this is such a shock. Last night Gabe was so alive, full of plans.” I met his eyes. “How many times have you heard someone say that?”
“It doesn’t make it any less true.” Alex held my gaze. “We don’t know what’s ahead, Jo. That’s how we manage to get up in the morning.” He ran his hand through his hair to comb out the melting snow. “Let’s stick to business. The next of kin need to be notified. Does Mr. Leventhal have any relatives in Regina?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “He’s an American – from New York City.”
“Then I’m going to have to ask you to make the ID.” Alex eyed my gown. “Your neighbour told me you were here for a wedding. How long do you think you’ll be?”
“The formal part of the reception doesn’t take long: just a few toasts and the cake cutting. I can be out of here in half an hour.” My response sounded confident, but my body felt boneless. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe deeply, but the image of me walking into the morgue and seeing Gabe’s body was too much. “I can’t do it, Alex,” I said. “I’m not even the logical person to ask. I just met Gabe last night at the rehearsal dinner; Evan’s known him for years.”
Alex’s eyes grew hard. “But you said you and Mr. Leventhal were intimate.”
“I just meant we clicked. We enjoyed one another’s company; we planned to get together today, but I really don’t know that much about him. I don’t think there are next of kin. Evan will know.”
“Fair enough,” Alex said. “But asking a groom to identify the body of his best man on his wedding day seems a bit harsh.”
“Evan’s very controlled.”
“Good,” Alex said. “Given the condition of his friend, he’ll need to be.”
Alex and I walked into a party mellowed by hot jazz, great food, smart talk, and servers who had been instructed to allow no glass to remain empty for longer than ten seconds. The room couldn’t have been more welcoming, but I felt Alex grow tense beside me. He could have faced a firing squad without flinching, but social situations were agony for him. Out of habit, I squeezed his arm; then, suddenly feeling awkward, I withdrew my hand and, anxious for a purpose, searched the crowd until I found Evan. He and Jill were making the rounds, accepting congratulations.
For the first time that day, Jill seemed genuinely happy, her face flushed with the pleasure of being with friends again. When she spotted Alex, she gave me an impish smile. After my relationship with him had come to an end, Jill had called from Toronto every night for a month. She was the only one who knew how deeply Alex’s brief affair with another woman had wounded me, and that night she couldn’t hide her pleasure at seeing us together again.
As soon as she and Evan came over, she held out her arms to Alex. “It’s so good to see you,” she said. “I don’t need to hear the details. I’m just glad you’re here.” Jill turned to her new husband, “Evan, this is Alex Kequahtooway – Inspector Alex Kequahtooway of the Regina Police Force. Alex, Evan MacLeish.”
Alex offered his hand. “Congratulations,” he said.
“Thanks.” Evan was tight-jawed
as he took Alex’s measure. “Am I wrong in assuming there’s more on your mind than wishing us well?”
Alex didn’t falter. “No, I’m here on police business.” His eyes met Jill’s. “I’m sorry, Jill. I really was hoping I could talk to Mr. MacLeish alone.”
“We seemed to have closed that option,” Evan said.
“I guess we have,” Alex replied. “So here’s the situation. A man’s body was found behind the Hotel Saskatchewan this afternoon. We have reason to believe the deceased is Gabriel Leventhal.”
Jill’s face grew dangerously pale. “Was it his heart?” she asked.
Alex took out his notepad. “Did Mr. Leventhal have a history of heart problems?”
Evan answered for her. “He had a history of hypochondria. Last night he thought he had an angina attack. He said it was mild, but it was obvious he was shaken.”
“When did this happen?” Alex had his pencil poised.
Evan looked away. “I don’t know. Sometime in the night. Gabe’s room at the hotel was across from mine. I was asleep. I heard a knock at my door, and it was Gabe. He said he was experiencing some pain in his shoulder and he thought he should go back to New York and consult his doctor.”
“Did you suggest he see a doctor here?” Alex asked.
“Why would I? He was a hypochondriac. A hundred doctors could have told him his heart was sound and it wouldn’t have changed anything.” Evan’s tone was flat, the way his daughter’s had been when Jill asked Bryn if she’d been disturbed by seeing her aunt wear Annie Lowell’s wedding dress.
Evan’s lack of emotion goaded me. “What happened to ‘Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a great battle’? You knew what kind of battle Gabe was fighting, why didn’t you check to see if he was all right?”
“Jo, I’m attempting to get some answers here.” Alex’s warning was clear, but I ignored it.
“So am I,” I said. “I want to know why a man I cared about froze to death in the snow and was run over like an animal.”
“Then let me do my job,” Alex said. He turned back to Evan. “You were saying that it was midnight when you last saw Mr. Leventhal alive.”
“I can help with the time,” Jill said. She looked stunned, but she knew how to follow a story. “I was staying at Joanne’s, and Gabe phoned me there – it was around one-thirty when he called. He said he needed to see me. I had some problems getting downtown, so by the time I arrived, he’d already gone to bed. The man on the graveyard shift at the front desk called Gabe’s room for me, but he didn’t answer. You can check with the desk clerk about the exact time.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Alex said. He turned back to Evan. “Mr. MacLeish, why didn’t you call your fiancee last night to tell her that your best man was withdrawing.”
For the first time, there was a note of asperity in Evan’s voice. “Because there was no point in disturbing her. It was late. I couldn’t justify waking Jill up the night before our wedding because the best man was having a panic attack and wanted his doctor.”
“It appears Mr. Leventhal suffered something more medically threatening than a panic attack,” Alex said coolly.
“I had no way of knowing that,” Evan said. “All I knew was that Jill and I were getting married the next day, and I wanted our wedding to be a happy occasion.”
“I still want that,” Jill said quietly. “We all do.” She was not a woman who asked favours, but she was asking for one now. “Alex, can’t this wait? I feel sick about Gabe – I really do, but this is supposed to be a celebration. My stepdaughter has looked forward to this day for so long. Give us a chance to start our life together with some good memories.”
“My wife has a point,” Evan said. “No one here has done anything wrong. And once the reception’s over, I’m at your disposal. We can meet back at the hotel. I can change and check my notebook. I’m almost certain Gabe left me a couple of contact numbers in New York when we were making our plans to come out here.”
Alex darted a quick glance at Jill. Something in her face seemed to decide the matter for him. “You have two hours,” he said finally. “Where are you staying?”
“The Hotel Saskatchewan,” Evan said. “The Bridal Suite.”
“Very romantic,” Alex said. “So when’s the honeymoon?”
“We’re flying to New York tomorrow,” Jill said.
Alex glanced at the swirling vortex of snow outside the window. “Hope you make it,” he said.
Jill’s laugh was shaky. “So do I,” she said.
Traditionally, the first toast at a wedding is to the health of the bride and groom and comes from the bride’s father. Since Jill’s last memory of her father was of him drunkenly picking up the tablecloth at her fourth birthday party and throwing everything – presents, plates, glasses, and cake – into the garbage can in the back alley, I’d been rung in as his replacement. Proposing a drink to the health of the bride and groom seemed such a no-brainer that I hadn’t bothered to check out any of the Web sites Angus recommended. That afternoon, as I stood dry-mouthed and blank-brained before the wedding guests, I longed for the wisdom of heartfelt. com that promised words to live by and tips on body language and humour guaranteed to bring down the house.
I didn’t bring down the house, but I did manage to stumble out a few coherent sentences. When Jill stood up to respond, she flashed me an understanding smile and thanked me for being her pilot light of optimism through more dark times than she cared to count.
It was a touching moment, and when Felix pushed back his chair and stood, his eyes were misty. He wasn’t scheduled to speak until later, so I assumed Jill’s words had stirred something in him. It turned out they had.
“I have a message from another woman who has illuminated the lives of those who know her. Caroline MacLeish sent me the following note for her new daughter-in-law.” Felix took out his Palm Pilot and read, “ ‘I woke this morning thinking of you drawing the velvet cape around your shoulders as you went off to begin your new life. When I drew that same cape around my shoulders and left for my wedding, I knew very little. There’s much that I still don’t understand, but here is one true thing: Nietzsche tells us that human beings must accept the fact that pleasure and pain are inextricably linked and that a life without pain would be a life with a limited capacity for joy. Embrace the pain in your life, Jill. It will lead you to unimaginable joy.’ ”
When Felix fell silent, there was a smattering of desultory applause, but he didn’t pick up on the hint that his moment in the spotlight was over and it was time to cede the floor. He seemed mesmerized by his Palm Pilot, staring at it, as if for comfort or advice. The silence became awkward, and Jill went over, whispered something in his ear, and guided him gently down into his seat.
The next speaker was Evan, and when he stood up, the stagy tan of his MAC concealer and his movie-star larger-than-life quality caused even the servers to stop and stare. As he raised his glass, I sensed a consummate actor was about to take us all on a journey, and I wasn’t wrong.
“Thank you, Felix, for bringing Caroline MacLeish to the wedding. Not many women would have sent the gift of Nietzsche to a new bride but, as you say, my mother is exceptional. Apparently, she is also prescient. Caroline’s is the only gift Jill and I can put to immediate use.” Guests leaned forward in their seats, anticipating some drama. Evan didn’t disappoint. “A few minutes ago, we learned that our dear friend, Gabe Leventhal, who came here from New York to be part of our wedding, died of a heart attack early this morning. We’re shaken, in pain, but mindful of Nietzsche’s lesson, I ask that you join me in drinking a toast that encompasses pain at the death of a friend and joy at the birth of a marriage.”
The silence in the room was rooted more in awkwardness than grief. Most of the guests had never met Gabe Leventhal, but as I took in the reactions of those who had, there were a few surprises. Taylor, who was sitting beside me, was stunned into silence. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“I just don’t understand,” s
he said. “How could he be at our house having fun last night, then be dead today?”
My only answer was to pull her close. Angus was watching Bryn intently, ready to catch the pieces when she shattered, but after a beat, she opened her evening bag, pulled out a mirror, and checked her lip gloss. Tracy had begun to cry, copiously and theatrically. Claudia handed her a glass of champagne, told her to smarten up, then turned her attention to saving the party. “Time for the cake,” she said. “And time to applaud the man who created the cake.”
The name of the man who created the cake was Kevin Hynd, and he had a history. He was by training a corporate lawyer and, like Jill, he was a passionate Deadhead. When Jerry Garcia died, Kevin had been rocked by the revelation that life was transitory. He walked away from his six-figure income and started doing pro bono work that he underwrote with the earnings from his new business: a bakery devoted to creating edible monuments to hip excess. The wedding cake was his gift to Jill, and as the guests gathered around, it was clear that Kevin had surpassed himself. He’d created a four-tiered marvel covered in Swiss meringue butter cream, encircled by a soaring fondant ribbon bearing the legend “Let there be songs to fill the air…” and topped with marzipan renderings of the Rainbow Dancers, those high-stepping, multi-coloured, top-hatted skeletons who were the emblem of one of the Grateful Dead’s greatest tours. The creation was slick enough for a magazine cover, but funky as the cake was, it was the knife Jill and Evan were using that drew my eye.
It was an ulu, the crescent-shaped knife Inuit women use to cut up seal meat and dress skins. The women of Baker Lake had given it to Jill after she spent a summer there doing a story about their lives and their art. At her farewell party, the women told her the knife was a vital survival tool for a woman; then they had covered their mouths to hide their laughter at the idea that Jill would need an ulu to survive in the civilized world of network television.