by Gail Bowen
“Tell me what you know.”
“Well, let’s see. The police found a partial print from a bloody shoe in the alley and a remnant of burned rubber in the contents of Howard Dowhanuik’s vacuum cleaner. They’ve got their man, and my old room at Hojo’s is waiting for me. I can’t believe NationTV hasn’t been in touch with you.”
“I had my cell turned off during the funeral,” I said. I took the phone out of my bag and turned it on. There was a text message from Jill: “What goes on?”
“I should call in,” I said.
“Be my guest,” Brette said. “It’s not as if I’m going anywhere.”
When I passed on the news of Howard’s arrest, Jill was livid. She had begun her career as a press officer in Howard’s government and she retained a lingering affection for him. “I don’t believe this for a moment. What’s the matter with those cops? Howard has had his troubles, but he’s not a murderer. Jo, find out what’s going on. Howard was always kind to me. Said it was about time there were more smart broads in government.”
“Ever enlightened,” I said. “I’m in the Calgary airport right now, but Zack knows Howard’s lawyer. I’ll see what I can find out.”
I hung up and checked my watch. “I’ve got to go, Brette,” I said. “I hope I’ll see you on the plane.”
Brette stared morosely at the woman with the three little children. “If I make it, you know who I’ll be sitting beside.”
When I told Zack about Howard, he immediately called Margot Wright. It was a brief call, but he picked up the essentials and relayed them to me. The police had arrested Howard at 1:00 p.m. Regina time. Howard was handling himself well – not giving anything up except his name and address. Margot had implored him to tell her the whole story. He insisted he had, but she didn’t believe him.
“So where is Howard now?” I said.
“In the cells at the cop shop,” Zack said. “Margot managed to get a bail hearing tomorrow, but Howard will be there overnight.”
“Can I see him?”
“Nope. Just his lawyer. And, Jo, you don’t want to see that place. The drunk tank is just down the hall from the cells, so the smells and sounds are pretty much what you’d expect in the seventh circle of hell.”
“It might be a useful experience for Howard,” I said. “Still, there must be something I can do.”
“Actually, there is,” Zack said. “Margot wondered if you could find out Charlie’s shoe size.”
Glenda had been listening impassively, but the reference to shoes caught her attention. “Why would they be interested in that?”
“Evidence,” Zack said. “Somebody somewhere is trying to put the pieces together.”
Glenda frowned, looked down at her own fashionable pumps, and retreated into silence.
When I got back to my house, Charlie was there. He and Taylor were watching The Simpsons. Charlie jumped up when he saw me.
“No need to move,” I said.
“I was just sitting here wondering how you’re feeling about me these days.” His gaze was level. “How are you feeling about me these days, Jo?”
“Conflicted,” I said. “But I’ll work it out. Right now, your father should be the focus.”
“Can I see him?”
“No,” I said. “He’s only allowed to see his lawyer.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Do you care?”
“Yes, I care. I’m not a monster, Jo. I understand what my father is doing.”
I stepped closer. “What is he doing, Charlie?”
Charlie shrugged his thin shoulders. “Playing the hero. Taking the rap because he thinks I’m involved in what happened to Kathryn Morrissey.”
“Are you?”
“I didn’t kill her, Jo. My father should have more faith in me. Of course, that would involve understanding what I’m capable of, and he barely knows me.”
“So are you going to step forward and tell the truth?”
Charlie’s laugh was bitter. “Who do you suggest I talk to, Jo? The cops? How interested are they going to be in hearing that I didn’t kill Kathryn Morrissey? My father? You tell me I’m not allowed to see him. Not that it would make any difference if I did. As always, my father has made up his mind about what needs to be done and he’s doing it.”
“Why do you hate him so much?” I said.
“I don’t hate him. I came over today because I think this hero act of his is idiotic, and I was hoping somehow to communicate that to him. But since that appears to be impossible, I’ll be off …”
I glanced down at Charlie’s feet. He was wearing hiking boots that looked as if they’d just come out of the box. “Nice shoes,” I said. “Are they new?”
“As a matter of fact they are.”
“Did you get them in town?”
“On the Internet. I’ve got these freakish long, skinny feet. Anyway, I can give you the website if you want.”
“Sure.” I stepped closer to him. “Charlie, I was there when you were born. I hate the way things are with you and your father, but I haven’t stopped caring about you.”
Charlie nodded. “Right,” he said. “I’ll call my father’s lawyer and see if I can get her to deliver my little message.”
“Good.”
He leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Take care of yourself, Jo.”
The morning newspaper was filled with news of Howard’s arrest. For his trip to police headquarters, Howard chose to wear his scarlet toque with its pattern of elves at play. Margot wore leather. In the photo splashed on the front page, they made a striking couple.
Taylor and I had breakfast, then I dropped her off at school and went down to NationTV to see what I could find out. When I arrived, Rapti was across the newsroom chatting with a colleague. I went to her cubicle and, while I waited, looked around for any new photos of Zuben.
“I haven’t got our Halloween photos developed yet,” Rapti said when she returned. “Zuben went as a cat.”
“I wish you’d come to our place.”
“Next year,” Rapti said. She reached back and knotted her shining black hair into a ponytail. “So have you got something for me?”
“No. I was hoping you had something for me. Have the police found out anything more about that footprint they found in the alley?”
“Just that it was no big deal. It came from one of the shoes that poor kid – Ethan – was wearing when he found his mother’s body. Apparently he tried to revive her and he got pretty bloody. He took his clothes out to the Dumpster. I guess he was in shock. Anyway, my source says the footprint is insignificant.”
I stood up to leave. “Thanks,” I said. “Would it be a problem if I pass this along to Howard Dowhanuik’s lawyer?”
Rapti shook her head. “Be my guest. She probably already knows. And, Jo, stay in touch. Jill will want a backgrounder on Howard Dowhanuik.”
“I’m around,” I said.
Margot Wright wasn’t on my speed dial, so I called Zack. “The footprint is a non-starter,” I said. “The police say it belongs to Ethan.”
“I’ll tell Margot,” Zack said.
“And now that it no longer matters,” I said, “tell her that Charlie’s feet are long and freakishly skinny. Also, Charlie’s going to get in touch with her. He wants to send a message to his father.”
“Hmm,” Zack said. “Progress.”
“I hope so.”
“You sound kind of down.”
“Just fresh out of optimism,” I said.
“Then, let’s talk about something nice. What should I get Taylor for her birthday?”
“Well, let’s see, I think I covered the ‘A List’: a box of Kolonok Art Brushes that, Taylor tells me, are the best, a new journal, some frilly underwear, and a book about Diego Rivera. She did mention she’d like a mani-pedi at Head to Toe.”
“What’s a mani-pedi?”
“A manicure and a pedicure. The mani-pedi comes with an assortment of chocolate truffles – very decadent.”
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“If that’s what Taylor wants, that’s what she shall have.”
“I hope it’s always like this for her,” I said.
“Me too,” Zack said. “She’s a great kid and I love that we’re going to be a family. Now, gotta go. Got to do something to pay for that mani-pedi.”
I spent the day working on my book. My visit to Beverly Parker’s church had given me fresh insight into the new values war, and raised provocative questions about how politically combative the conservative movement in our country might become. Zack was home at six to have dinner with Taylor and me. He was gone again by eight, and I worked on my book until bedtime. Life had a pattern, and I was grateful.
On the morning of Taylor’s birthday, I went in to give her a nuzzle before Willie and I took off on our run. She rolled over and smiled without opening her eyes. “Happy birthday,” I said. “You smell good. What is that perfume you’re wearing?”
“Gracie made it. It’s a mixture of patchouli oil, lavender, and something else I can’t remember.”
“Gracie makes perfume?”
“There a store on 13th Avenue that has all the stuff. You just give them the person’s perfume profile, and they help you pick out what you need.”
“What’s a perfume profile?”
Taylor propped her chin on her elbow and yawned. “Three words that describe the person. My words were ‘artistic,’ ‘independent,’ and ‘loving.’ Gracie and Isobel chose them.”
“Gracie and Isobel were right on the money,” I said. I started out of the room. Then obeying an impulse, I came back and put my arms around my daughter.
She yawned. “I had an idea for the mural in the new house.”
“Want to tell me?”
“It’s a secret – but I’ve made some little paintings – just trying things out.”
“Good. Willie and I are going for our run – be back in an hour.”
“Mmmm.” Taylor burrowed deeper into her covers and went back to sleep.
I took her gifts downstairs, put them on her breakfast plate, then hooked Willie’s leash to his collar. It was November 11, Remembrance Day, and the morning was cool, misty, and silent. Willie and I circled the lake. By the time we came to the legislature, the army trucks were bringing in the ancient cannons that would be fired at eleven o’clock, shots through history that froze the marrow.
Taylor’s gifts were still wrapped and on the table when I got back. She was sleeping in, and why not when it was her birthday and a holiday to boot? After I’d showered and dressed, I came downstairs, made myself a bowl of yogurt and blueberries, picked up the newspaper, and prepared myself for the rare adventure of breakfasting alone.
It was close to eight o’clock when Zack called, asking if there were last-minute guests to add to the reservation list for dinner. Taylor had decided she wanted to go out for ribs on her birthday, and Zack needed to know if we wanted a bigger table.
I called upstairs to Taylor, and when she didn’t answer, I ran up to her room. She wasn’t there. I checked her bathroom. It was empty.
I picked up the extension by Taylor’s bed. I had left the phone in the kitchen off the hook, and I could hear the chalk-screech dissonance of Hindemith’s Mathis der Maler in the background. “I can’t find her,” I said.
“Taylor just turned eleven,” Zack said. “She’s probably decided it’s time to see the world.”
“Not funny,” I said. “Also not like Taylor. She’s a homebody. I don’t think she’ll ever leave.”
“That’s okay with me. I like having her around,” Zack said. “Gotta go. I have a meeting downtown.”
“It’s Remembrance Day,” I said.
“The meeting is with some money guy from Vancouver. This was the only day his calendar wasn’t booked solid. Give Norine a call if we need a bigger table for dinner tonight. She’ll be at the office.”
“It’s a stat holiday in this province, remember?”
“Holiday, shmoliday,” Zack said. “There’s always work. Tell Taylor I’m looking forward to watching her blow out the candles.”
I stared at Taylor’s empty bed. It was unmade – not a surprise, but her pyjamas weren’t under her pillow, and if she’d gone out, that was unusual. Taylor was a creature of habit, and after she’d dressed, she always placed her pyjamas under her pillow. But lately, when she was working on a piece of art, she’d put on her boots, throw a jacket over her pyjamas, and work in her studio for an hour before school. It was possible our talk about the mural had ignited a spark and she was painting.
I went back downstairs, opened the door to the deck, and called her name. There was no answer and I could feel the edge of panic. I tried to cling to logic. Two hours ago, Taylor had been safe in her bed. She was still wearing her pyjamas. When she was making art, she was oblivious to everything else. If I went to her studio, I would find her content and at work.
Unless I was there by invitation, Taylor’s studio was off limits, but at that moment, I was beyond respecting her privacy. The temperature had plummeted the night before, and as Willie and I walked across the lawn, the frost crunched beneath our feet.
Taylor’s studio had been built when she came to live with us. She was four years old, but she was already an artist – a prodigy who had inherited her mother, Sally Love’s, talent and a great deal of money. It seemed sensible to use some of that money to build Taylor a place where she could really make art. The studio was not a Sunday painter’s shack. It was about the size of a modest one-car garage, but the architect had designed it with an awareness of an artist’s need for light and space. The north window was large, and even from a distance, I could see that the room was empty. Hoping against hope, I knocked at the door, then opened it.
Taylor and I had long since agreed to disagree about the chaos that was her bedroom, but her workroom was always ordered: canvases, canvas stretchers, palettes, oils, acrylic paints, turpentine, brushes, rags for cleaning, rags for wiping paint into a canvas – everything had its place. The order Taylor brought to making her art was tonic, and I always felt happy in her studio. The “little painting” Taylor was working on was on her easel, and as it always did, Taylor’s art took my breath away.
For much of my life, I had been around people who prided themselves on their intellect, but Taylor’s gift came from a different well – one that was deep and mysterious. The painting before me had a languorous beauty. It was of our swimming pool. When Zack and I had lunch beside it on the Friday before Thanksgiving, the water had shimmered with a magic that I thought grew out of a golden afternoon and passion. But the brilliant turquoise of our forty-year-old pool had been magic for Taylor too.
As always in her paintings, Taylor herself was front and centre. A white diving board was suspended over the pool, and Taylor was sitting cross-legged on its end with her cats in the hollow of her lap. Our pool didn’t have a diving board, and Bruce and Benny regarded the water as the devil’s territory, but Taylor had created a place where boundaries were transcended. Despite everything, I found myself experiencing the wonder and peace of that idyllic world. Then, as quickly as it came, the spirit that flowed when I gazed at Taylor’s painting contracted into the cold focus of a vanishing point. Where was the girl who had painted this picture? Where was my daughter?
I closed the door to the studio, called Willie who had been racing in circles on the lawn, and walked back to the house. When I bent to take off my runners, it hit me. If Taylor had been in her studio that morning, her footprints would be visible in the frosty grass. I went back out to check the lawn, but I saw at once that it was too late. Willie and I had obliterated whatever tracks might have been there.
I was making mistakes that I couldn’t afford to make. I needed to take a deep breath and use common sense. Attached to the refrigerator door by a starfish-shaped magnet was a list of the names and phone numbers of Taylor’s friends. She had written it out at my request, and the sight of the familiar names in her small neat hand brought a pang. I picked up
the phone and began. It was a holiday, and my call awakened more than a few parents. Groggy but obliging, they woke up their children. No one knew where Taylor was. Everyone was reassuring. She was a good girl, responsible, not the kind to get in trouble. When at last I reached the end of the list, I was close to tears. There was only one more call to make.
For three years I had been involved with an inspector on the Regina Police Force, and I still remembered the number for headquarters. I dialed and waited. The officer who answered was gruff. When I gave her my name and address, told her Taylor’s age, and revealed that she had only been missing for three hours, the officer could barely contain her impatience.
We lived in the south end of the city, an area of geographical privilege where children were shepherded from school to lessons to play-dates by attentive parents who were only a cellphone call away. Taylor was the only child in her circle who didn’t own a cell. It had been a sore spot between us, but despite her imprecations, I hadn’t caved. When she argued that if she had a cell, I would always know where she was, I countered with my trump. Cellphones worked both ways, and at eleven, she should be learning to make independent decisions. I told her I trusted her, and I didn’t need to be checking on her every fifteen minutes. Reluctantly, Taylor had accepted my logic.
As I stared at the unopened presents heaped at her place at the table, I knew I would give anything if Taylor had pummelled me into submission, and there was a number I could dial to hear her voice.
When my husband died, I had collapsed. We had, in theory, been all in all to each other, and it had taken me years to become a woman who didn’t need another person to help her face a crisis. But that morning I needed Zack. I tried his cell, and immediately got his voice mail. If his cell was off, the meeting with the man from Vancouver must have been important. I dialed Norine MacDonald’s number.
Her voice was warm. “Zack told me to expect a call,” she said. “How many new best friends have been added to Taylor’s guest list?”