by Myrna Dey
“Just for a short time. To get them accustomed to their mother’s absence in a familiar place. It seems so drastic to lose everything you know all at once.”
“No point dragging it out when they can’t stay here.”
Jane looks across at the girls and swallows her tears. As usual, Janet and June have been nudged off the swing, leaving Sara and Suzanne to chatter and rock together on the spot. The quiet twin and younger sister appear content to be counting ladybugs in dry oak leaves. “If you and Milt change your minds, the girls are always welcome in our home.”
A chilly breeze brings a shiver to Jane through her cardigan. She touches Mrs. Osler’s sturdy arm, now folded across her bosom shelf, and turns to run back home across the garden path where so many memories of Marjorie have been planted.
Inside, she hopes Sara and Janet will not follow right away. She needs a moment alone. Grief is gaining momentum, now gathering thoughts of her son, too long silent, and in constant peril. She opens the drawer of a desk she bought for the girls at an estate sale. It stands between kitchen and sitting room and Sara makes the most use of it doing lessons or drawing while Jane is cooking or sewing with Janet by her side. Carefully, she takes out a pile of seven letters. She rereads the one on top for the twentieth time. Sara is already a better speller than Llewyllyn will ever be.
July 2, 1918
Dear Mother,
Thank you for your letters to Belgium. I read them over and over. We are in Flanders after a batle at Kemmel Ridge. I am still in one piece and that is a mirakle. Thousands of soldiers have been killed or mamed. And now the Spanish flu is taking anyone left. Our officers say this war will soon be over. How I hope so.
I hope you are all staying healthy. Say hello to Papa and tell Sara and Janet I will bring them something spesial from France. Our company moves to Pikardy next. Please keep writing.
Your son,
Llewyllyn
Jane has sent several more letters to the military post office address over the summer. Is he in one piece even now? Casualties from the Battle of Amiens were high — was he there? The bedroom he could hardly wait to leave is Jane’s sewing space, now used only for their own clothes and special orders, thanks to Roland’s regular hours. She wonders how often her son longs for its comfort in the wet, bloody trenches.
She folds the letter up carefully and returns it to the drawer. A few pieces of vellum paper remain in the pad she bought for letters to Llewyllyn. Jane vows to write to Catherine before she loses everyone she loves.
From the Gilchrist yard, a familiar inebriated voice disrupts the quiet. The damage has been done. She thinks of Milt stumbling into the house where his mother-in-law now rules. Will the queen of abstention in good conscience deny a man the chance to numb such fresh sorrow? She hears Marjorie whisper and giggle, “Now’s the time to slip a little gin into her violet tea. She won’t notice the perfumey taste.”
Jane almost smiles.
JAN KUBIK’S ACCENT was unmistakable. He had phoned to invite me to a small memorial gathering for their baby son. “It is not a funeral or a burial. We have had the cremation. And it is according to my wish, because my wife wants nothing. I am keeping it as small as possible, just to honour Anton. We would like you and Constable Holder to join us at 3 PM tomorrow for a short walk through the Van Dusen Gardens followed by a glass of wine inside.”
I thanked him, hung up, and passed on the message to Tessa, who, her attention fixed on the computer, nodded her willingness to attend.
“If we’re excused, that is,” I said to Wayne, bent over the Criminal Code checking a section on sexual exploitation for a case that had just come in.
“All in the line of duty,” he replied without looking up.
“Isn’t the cremation a bit early? Do we have everything we need?” asked Dex, printing off a fresh virus alert for his collection.
“Autopsy was done when you were on the island. No surprises. We released the remains.”
Still no headway in the Kubik case. Typically, IHIT would have taken it over by now, but because of my work with the family — or whatever you wanted to call it — they had told us to run with it. Pressure or what? No more leads from neighbours, from evidence, or from the Porsche — if that’s what it was. I remembered Monty saying there were channels to follow in investigations but no clear patterns of criminal behaviour. That a conviction might come where and when you least expected it. Were we to sit and wait then until the perpetrator was revealed? Such a sensational homicide would not be forgotten by the public, and I hoped it would not turn into a cold case like the Louis Strong murder, still unproven a century later. At least they had a suspect — more than we had.
Sukhi had left minutes before and I caught up with him in the cold dark air of the parking lot. His wife had just called to tell him she was pregnant, exploding his breath in visible puffs of joy. I gave him a hug, then jumped in my car and turned on the heater full blast, wishing I had a deluxe model with seat warmers. Just before I reached home, my cellphone rang.
“You’re a busy woman,” said Warren Wright.
“It’s been a busy year, all eight days of it. How are you?”
“Beginning to feel like a stalker. Wondering if I should quit calling.”
“No, don’t do that.” I stopped to use my entry card to the underground parking lot and the steel door segments clattered noisily into the ceiling.
“So where are you now — patrolling cells?”
I laughed. “Just driving in. I’ll be upstairs in a minute.”
“And you don’t want me to know where you live.”
“Maybe soon.” His soft voice was causing my caution gauge to dip out of its safety zone. “How about supper tomorrow night?”
Did I say that? He sounded as surprised as I was.
“Well, well, well. I think I’m available.”
“The Mongolian Grill on Broadway and Cambie at six-thirty?” The Van Dusen Gardens weren’t far from there and I would no doubt welcome a change of mood.
“I like this take-charge attitude. Like old times.”
Just after lunch the next day, Tessa was assigned to interview the victim of the sexual exploitation charge: a fourteen-year-old girl who alleged her volleyball coach had touched her inappropriately. I was thankful Tessa was the primary on this because I didn’t have much experience with sex crimes; she was patient and kind and would get the most out of the girl without upsetting her. That meant I would be our only representative at the memorial.
Turned out I was the only other person at all. I saw Jan and Selena getting out of their Mercedes near the entrance just as I found a space at the end of the crowded parking lot. Jan greeted me formally with a handshake as I explained Tessa’s absence.
“Thank you for coming. It is just the three of us then. I had wanted to invite my wife’s sister and my brother but she would not hear of it.”
Selena, in a short tweed jacket, brown pinstriped pants, and low-heeled, blunt-toed boots, stroked my oregano blazer approvingly by way of a greeting. I was glad I had ironed my cream silk blouse and best black slacks to wear with it, and at the last minute stuck an antique brooch of Sara’s on the lapel.
So I ranked above relatives again? As insiders to the case, Tessa and I required less energy on Selena’s part — was that it? But what kind of family was this? At least there were more members than I thought, and the circle might even be larger, if I listened carefully.
All the decorations from the spectacular Van Dusen Gardens Christmas festival of lights had just been removed — Gail had gone with her family and reported it better than ever this year. Today the overcast sky and dormant foliage were less than alluring — unless you were a plant lover, which Selena apparently was. As we started through the groomed trails, I restrained my reckless curiosity and slipped in casual questions as one might offer tidbits to a wild cat you wanted to tame.
Unable to get past Selena’s reticence, I spoke to Jan when she stopped to admire a shrub, thereb
y turning the nature walk into an opportunity to learn about more than just flora species. I learned that his younger brother was a bachelor accountant in North Vancouver. Selena’s older sister in Coquitlam had been married briefly to a Canadian, had no children, and now managed a furniture store on United Way. They had all immigrated to Canada in 1990 just after the Velvet Revolution when Czechoslovakia was freeing itself from Communist rule. They were all Bohemians, Jan declared proudly, though he was from a wealthy background and Selena’s father was a bricklayer. During the Communist crackdown in 1969, his parents, landowner professors, were sent to a work camp in Siberia, where they died. He was a student in Prague at the time and had no choice but to remain there, take care of his brother while they both studied, and later work for government firms. For years he would not consider creating a family under such a regime, until he met and was captivated by Selena. She was a window dresser in one of Prague’s few fashion boutiques and was to him “like an orchid — beautiful, untouchable, and requiring just the right light and temperature.”
Between these intriguing snippets, Selena would rejoin us after contemplating a Christmas cactus or a larch sapling, her eyes alight with wonder, before being dulled again by the sound of her husband’s voice. When she lingered at another flower in waiting, I would gently remind Jan where he had left off. Not that he needed it, because there was a relentless quality about his sentences that did not leave a word hanging. He told me Selena took to Vancouver like a seagull and immediately found a job working for a professional theatre company in the costume department. She was happy there for a few years, but when their attempts to have children failed, he persuaded her it was due to the stress of deadlines and opening nights. He made a good living and she should be content to stay home.
“Was she?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“No, she was not,” he sighed. “When this intended stress-free period also did not produce any children, she joined another community theatre group as a volunteer. I often wondered if I craved a family more, because I had lost my parents so young and finally felt safe enough in a country to bring a child into the world. My wife needed a creative outlet, and one or two productions a year kept her satisfied without the long hours. Eventually little Anton arrived, and she realized instantly what we had been missing. We are not young parents, Constable Dryvynsydes, especially me, and I had given up hope for such a gift.”
Selena caught up for the end of her husband’s words and his arm reached out toward her: “…the whole ordeal has been unbearable for my wife, and all I ask is strength to take care of her.”
When she continued to walk on ahead of us without a pause, I wondered how he could be so blind not to see that his gestures, intended to comfort her, were having the opposite effect. It did seem strange that he always referred to her as “my wife,” and never by name.
With Selena again out of range, I used the final stretch to ask, “What’s your connection to Kosovo?”
“You mean, why was I over there? I work for an international engineering firm and they send us wherever infrastructure is a problem, often through war or poverty.”
“So there is no one from Kosovo in your firm?”
He looked confused. “The only Kosovars of my acquaintance have never left their native land. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering,” I said, reaching the entrance to the building where sludge-grey clouds were threatening to spill their contents. Selena waited for us under a palm frond with her eyes downcast. Again I asked myself how a woman as desolate as Selena could come across as more natural than her husband, whose sense of duty and correctness took the place of spontaneity.
Inside, we took a booth in the airy garden-style restaurant with its floral tapestry. Because I was more or less on duty, I ordered cranberry juice and tonic water. Selena ordered a glass of ice wine — the most expensive item on the list — and Jan, Riesling. Glasses in hand, I waited for a toast. Little Anton had hardly been mentioned this afternoon and I was about to say something when his father clinked his glass against mine. “To Anton’s short life and all the joy it brought us. May his beautiful spirit rest in peace.”
“To Anton,” I said, “I wish I had known him.”
Selena raised her glass to be touched by her husband’s and mine, but said nothing. Her dark eyes were restless and alert, like a cat when its ears go down. Then she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse. “Would anyone notice if I sneaked a puff or two?”
Jan’s face grew red with embarrassment and anger. “You know it is not allowed. You are putting Constable Dryvynsydes in an awkward position by breaking the law in front of her.”
I felt more awkward over this obvious power play than the smoking bylaw; the restaurant manager would tend to that.
“Since when did you start again?” Jan demanded, as if she were a small child.
“You don’t think I have reason to smoke now?”
“Reasons don’t make abominable habits right.” A spray of spittle misfired and Jan excused himself politely, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
Just then a waiter arrived with appetizers and Jan’s curt but polite thank-you brought the skirmish to an end. Selena had clearly provoked her husband to demonstrate his condescending manner and toyed with her cigarette package a little longer, smiling at me as I scrambled for a neutral topic. Grateful for the Olympics, I threw out questions about favourite events, budgets, changes to the city. We were able to finish our drinks without incident, Jan taking the lead again as the most informed. It didn’t occur to me until later that none of us mentioned the capture of the perpetrator, the reason after all that I had become part of our strange threesome. Nor did I ask what they had done with the cremated remains, a more deliberate omission on my part to respect their privacy.
Shortly before five, Jan stood up in his usual formal manner, as if a heel click and salute might follow. Selena dawdled putting on her coat, intentionally causing him annoyance he had to hide. I thanked them for including me in this tragic occasion, and promised to notify them of any progress in the case.
Outside it was pouring. The Kubiks jumped into their Mercedes close to the entrance, and I ran the full length of the parking lot to my Mazda. Two cars had hemmed me in and I swore a bit standing there in the rain — it wasn’t as if my vehicle took up much space. Just as I started to wedge myself through the wider opening to the passenger door, the brake lights of the car on the driver’s side went on. I stepped back and allowed it to pull out. That split-second decision to wait rather than seek immediate shelter in the car would make up for all the other delayed reactions I had been guilty of in my career.
How, through the steamy downpour, did my eyes happen to fall on the licence plate of the white car backing out, noting the small Porsche crest above it? Or would a plate with PIN IT stand out anywhere? By the time this data registered, the blip of a dark-haired male driver through a foggy window turning out of the parking lot was all that was left.
I jumped into my own car and let the possibilities blossom. Was it coincidence that a white Porsche with a dark-haired man was parked metres away from the Kubiks at a memorial service for their murdered baby? If I didn’t want to check for myself at the office, I would have phoned the licence in; as it was, I had less than half an hour before meeting Warren. To calm my impatience, I decided to make a pit stop at Dad’s on the way to the restaurant.
He had just finished a plate of sardines on toast and listened eagerly to all the details of Nanaimo, Ladysmith, and Extension. Family resemblance was a strange thing; Dad did not look at all like his sister, but his expression of shock and sorrow upon hearing of Lizzie’s intentional separation of the twins was the same as Janetta’s. At the end he said, “Shouldn’t we tell Wendell?”
This time I wasn’t going to be the “we” who got roped into calling the Mingus family. “Good idea. I’m sure he’d like a chat with you. I’ve got to get going — I’m meeting someone for supper.”
“Anyone I know?�
�
“The same someone you might someday.”
Five minutes to Broadway and Cambie doubled in the rain, and by the time I parked on Yukon Street, Warren and I reached the door of the Mongolian Grill at the same time. Again he had run from his place in False Creek, and his hair and Gore-Tex jacket were dripping like a wet dog. He pushed the door open for me.
“Never heard of cars?”
“Heavier than I expected. I can usually do it in eight minutes but underestimated the resistance.” His scrubbed, fresh skin, ready grin, and heaving breaths contributed to my own quickening pulse as we hung our jackets over chairs and ordered a beer. We both knew the routine of the Mongolian Grill and loaded our plates from the many trays with an eye to guessing the exact weight of each and getting it free. It was strictly a game, as I rarely came close and embarrassed myself that night by being two hundred grams over my estimate, and even worse, over his. Who knew seafood, kebabs, and sautéed vegetables could weigh that much?
Conversation was easy — so easy I thought he must be putting me on. I couldn’t get that old joke out of my head: Who would want to join a club that would have me as a member? In other words, I figured it was a set-up for future humiliation. No suggestive remarks or allusions to more dates, just a relaxed exchange with a lot of laughs. He’d gained a slew of new contracts through the Olympics and was stretched but not complaining about business. He seemed to realize I couldn’t discuss my work and didn’t probe.
The matter of the licence plate still niggling at me, I was first to stand up. When we stepped outside, the rain had stopped and he refused my offer of a ride home for a second time. “Who’s the mysterious one now?” I asked when he mumbled something about fulfilling a running quota.
“I’ll talk to you soon.” He waved and broke into a jog across Cambie. Or did he say “again”? There was a difference. Whatever he was doing, I had to concede this guy was good. To keep me balanced on the edge of hope and fear without toppling into either wasn’t easy.