The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn

by Gail Bowen

  In the silence, I heard Hilda’s voice, as civil and unworried as it would have sounded in the classroom. “Gerald Parker, that is you, isn’t it?”

  The man in front of her smiled.

  “Yes, Miss McCourt,” he said.

  “I hear you’ve done well for yourself,” Hilda said. “Real estate, isn’t it?”

  “Last year I made the Million Dollar Club for the third straight year.” he said.

  “Splendid,” said Hilda. “You always were a hard worker. Now, Gerald, I wonder if you could let us pass. You’ve made your point. Nothing’s to be gained by keeping us out here in the snow.”

  Without a word, Gerald broke his connection with the woman next to him, and Hilda walked between them. It wasn’t Moses parting the Red Sea, but it was close. Before Gerald changed his mind, I followed. Then Howard. We had just reached the top of the stairs when I heard a man’s voice: “She’s here.”

  I turned. Jane O’Keefe was getting out of a taxi at the front of the hotel. Her sister, Sylvie, was with her. They glanced at the crowd, and then they turned towards one another. Their profiles were almost identical; cleanly marked jawlines, generous mouths, short strong noses, carefully arched brows. The two women had the scrubbed blond good looks you could see on the golf course of the best club in any city in North America. In fact, the O’Keefe sisters had grown up in the pleasant world of private schools and summers at the lake. As the crowd began to surge towards them, that idyllic existence must have seemed a lifetime away. The lights in front of the hotel leached the sisters’ faces of colour, but Jane and Sylvie didn’t hesitate. They started towards the stairs. Sylvie was carrying a camera and she hunched her body around it, protecting it the way a mother would protect a child.

  The crowd surrounded the two women, cutting them off. No one moved. The only noise was the muted sound of traffic on the snowy streets. Then Howard came down the stairs towards them. This time there was force. He used his powerful shoulders as a wedge to break through the line. When he got to Jane and Sylvie, he linked hands with them and started back up the steps.

  “Proverbs 11:21.” A woman’s voice, husky and self-important, cut through the silent night. “Though hand join in hand the wicked shall not be unpunished but the seed of the righteous shall be delivered.”

  I turned towards the voice. So did a lot of other people. When she saw that she was centre-stage, a smile lit Maureen Gault’s thin face, and she gave me a mocking wave.

  The demonstrators on the front steps had broken ranks during Little Mo’s outburst, and Howard took advantage of the situation to get Sylvie and Jane into the hotel. Seconds later, the five of us were safe in the lobby, our shaken selves reflected a dozen times in the mirrors that lined the walls.

  Hilda took command of the situation. She turned to Sylvie and Jane. “We were planning to have a drink before the festivities started. Will you join us?”

  Jane O’Keefe smiled wearily. “As my grandfather used to say, ‘Does a bear shit in the woods?’ Let’s go.”

  The Saskatchewan Lounge is a bar for genteel drinkers: the floral wallpaper is expensive; the restored woodwork gleams; the chairs, upholstered in peony-pink silk, are deep and comfortable; and the waiters don’t smirk when they ask if you’ll have your usual. We found a large table in the corner as far away as possible from the singing piano player. When the waiter came, I asked for a glass of vermouth, then, remembering the menace in Maureen Gault’s smile, I changed my order to bourbon.

  Howard raised his eyebrows. “Trying to keep pace with the guest of honour, Jo?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, “but Howard, didn’t you see …”

  He’d been smiling, but, as he leaned towards me, the smile vanished, and I changed my mind about telling him Maureen Gault had been in the crowd. Howard had always been there when I needed him, and this was his night.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just a case of mistaken identity.”

  “Sure you’re okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I’m sure.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. Then he turned to Jane O’Keefe. “So, are you having second thoughts about the Women’s Centre?”

  “Not a one,” she said. “And I’ve waded through crowds a lot loonier than that bunch out there.”

  Sylvie started to speak, but Jane cut her off. “My sister doesn’t agree with me on this issue. But my sister hasn’t had to try to salvage women who’ve been worked over by butchers. If you’d seen what I’d seen, Sylvie, you’d know I didn’t have a choice.”

  “No,” Hilda said, “you didn’t. For sixty-five years, I’ve known that an enlightened society can’t drive women into back alleys.”

  I was surprised. There were some subjects I never discussed with Hilda. The drinks came and, with them, another surprise. Hilda had never been forthcoming about her private life. She sipped her Glenfiddich and turned to Jane O’Keefe. “My sister died from a botched abortion,” she said. “By the time I’d convinced her to let me take her to the hospital, she was, to use your word, Jane, unsalvageable. It’s vital that women are never driven to that again.” Hilda’s eyes were bright with anger.

  On the other side of the bar, the piano player had started to sing “Miss Otis Regrets.” Jane reached over and touched Hilda’s hand. “Thanks,” she said. “There are times when I need a little affirmation.”

  Howard snorted. “Janey, you never needed affirmation. You always had bigger balls than any of us.”

  Jane looked at him, deadpan. “What a graceful compliment,” she said, and everybody laughed.

  Everybody, that is, except her sister. For as long as I’d known her Sylvie O’Keefe had been an outsider. As I watched her blue eyes sweep the table, I wondered, not for the first time, what that level gaze took in.

  She had always been unknowable and, for much of her life, enviable. She was rich, she was talented, and she was beautiful. She and Gary had been a golden couple. Physically, they were both so perfect, it had been a pleasure simply to watch them as they came into a room. In the days when we were all having babies, we joked about the glorious gene pool Sylvie and Gary’s child would draw from. But there was no baby, and as the months, then years, went by, Gary and Sylvie stopped being a golden couple. By the time Jess came, Gary and Sylvie had stopped being any sort of couple at all.

  Jess was a miracle, but he didn’t bring his parents together. Gary continued his headlong rush towards wherever he was going, and Sylvie became even more absorbed in her career. She was a gifted photographer, and her son soon became her favourite subject. Her luminous black and white photographs of him, by turns sensual and savage, were collected in a book, The Boy in the Lens’s Eye. The collection established Sylvie’s reputation in the places that counted. She was a success.

  As I watched her assessing the people drifting into the hotel bar, I wondered if the time would ever come when Sylvie O’Keefe and I would be friends. Somehow, it seemed unlikely, but one thing was certain: after twenty years, fate – or the vagaries of small-city living – had brought our lives to a point of convergence again.

  “Kismet,” I said.

  Sylvie turned reluctantly from the partygoers to me. “I don’t understand.”

  “Sorry,” I said, “just thinking out loud about how the kids’ discovering each other has brought our lives together.”

  “Actually, I’m glad we were brought together tonight,” she said. “I was going to call you about taking some pictures of Taylor. Have you ever watched her when she draws? She’s so focussed and so … I don’t know … tender. She has a great face.”

  “She looks like her mother,” I said.

  Sylvie looked at me quizzically.

  “You know Taylor is adopted,” I said. “Her mother was Sally Love.”

  Sylvie’s eyes widened. “Of course. I’d forgotten. Sally’s work was brilliant,” she said.

  “It was,” I agreed. “That’s one reason I’m happy Taylor’s spending some time around you. I think being
with another artist can give Taylor a link with her real mother.”

  Sylvie leaned towards me. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  Before I had a chance to answer, there was an explosion of laughter at the other end of the table. Howard was in the middle of a story about a rancher he’d acted for in a lawsuit against a manufacturer of pressurized cylinders. The rancher’s semen tank had sprung a leak. Like Onan, his seed had been wasted on the ground, but the rancher wasn’t waiting for God’s judgement. He hired Howard and took the case to court.

  As I turned to listen, Howard was recounting his summation for the jury. It was funny, but it was crude, and at the next table a smartly dressed man with silver hair and a disapproving mouth turned to glare at him. Howard smiled at the man, then, still smiling, leaned towards me. “I make it a policy never to get into a fight with a guy whose mouth is smaller than a chicken’s asshole.”

  The pianist segued into “Thanks for the Memories,” and I stood up. Howard looked at me questioningly. “It’s time to get out of here,” I said. “Some cracks are starting to appear in your guest of honour persona.”

  We finished our drinks, and headed for the lobby. Gary Stephens was just coming up the steps from the side door, and he joined us.

  “Sorry I’m late, babe,” he said to Sylvie. She looked at him without interest, and I wondered how often she’d heard that entrance line. But Jane O’Keefe was interested. Her grey eyes burned the space between herself and her brother-in-law. “You’re a real bastard, Gary,” she said. Then she turned her back to him and started towards the cloakroom. We followed her and dropped off our coats, then we took the elevator upstairs to the ballroom.

  The crowd in the upstairs hall was surprisingly young. Many of the men and women who were now deputy ministers or People on Significant Career Paths had been having their retainers adjusted and watching “The Brady Bunch” when Howard Dowhanuik became premier, but tonight that didn’t seem to matter. Our party’s first year back in government was going well, and there seemed to be a consensus that we had something to celebrate. In the ballroom, a string quartet played Beatles tunes, the crystal chandelier blazed with light, and silvery helium-filled balloons drifted above every table set for eight. It was party time.

  Hilda looked around the room happily. “It’s everything Howard deserves,” she said. “Now I’d better find my place.” She lowered her voice. “Joanne, I’m sitting with a man I met at the art gallery last Sunday. If we continue to enjoy one another’s company, I might not go home with you. My new friend tells me he has an original Harold Town in his apartment.”

  “But you hate Harold Town.”

  Hilda raised an eyebrow. “Well, there was no need to tell my friend that.”

  I laughed. “Let me know if you need a ride.”

  “I will,” she said. “Now, you’d better get over to the head table. Howard likes people to be punctual.”

  Manda and Craig Evanson were already in their places. Manda was wearing a blue Mexican wedding dress, scoop-necked and loose fitting to accommodate the swell of her pregnancy. Her dark hair, parted in the middle, fell loose to her shoulders. She was very beautiful.

  Sylvie stopped in front of Manda, took out her camera, and began checking the light with a gauge. As always, Sylvie seemed to have dressed with no thought for what other women might be wearing, and as always she seemed to have chosen just the right thing. Tonight, it was a pinstriped suit the colour of café au lait, and a creamy silk shirt. As she moved around the table, adjusting her camera, I noticed more than one woman in iridescent sequins taking note.

  “I don’t usually walk around like the inquiring photographer,” Sylvie said, “but I thought Howard might like some pictures of his party.”

  Manda smoothed the material of her dress over her stomach. “He’ll be thrilled. Having Sylvie O’Keefe take your party pictures is like having Pavarotti sing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ right to you.”

  Sylvie smiled. “Thanks,” she said, “but Howard has it coming. He’s a good guy.” She knelt so that Manda Evanson was in her lens. “Stay exactly as you are, Manda. Don’t smile. Just be. If Frida Kahlo had ever painted a Madonna, she would have looked like you.”

  Face glowing with love, Craig Evanson looked down at his wife. The happiest man in the world.

  When Tess Malone came in, the temperature at the head table dipped ten degrees. We all knew she’d orchestrated the demonstration outside. She went straight to where Howard was sitting. That was like her: confront the problem, no matter how painful. She was wearing a satin dress in a pewter shade that made her tightly corsetted little body look more bullet-like than ever.

  She sat in the empty chair beside him, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and began. “I know how angry you must be, Howard, but I won’t apologize. I like you and I respect you, but this dinner was a good chance for us. Never miss a chance. That’s what you taught me when we were in government. If the shoe was on the other foot, you wouldn’t have passed up this evening, and you know it.”

  For a moment, he stared at her. Then he started to laugh. “You’re right,” he said. “I wouldn’t have passed up a chance like this. Anyway, for once, your God Squad doesn’t seem to have done any harm.”

  Tess looked at him levelly. “In the spirit of the evening, I’ll ignore that.”

  “Good,” Howard said. “Now let me get you an ashtray before you ignite the tablecloth.”

  We all relaxed, and for a while it was a nice evening. The hip of beef was tender, and the wine was plentiful. Just as dessert was being served, Tess’s protesters began pounding their drums in a heartbeat rhythm, and she went out and told them they’d done a terrific job and they could call it a night.

  By the time the last dish was cleared away, and I stood to announce that the speeches were starting, the room was warmed by a sense of community and shared purpose. The new premier’s remarks about Howard were witty and mercifully brief, and the other speakers followed his lead. Sanity all around.

  And then Maureen Gault joined the party. The speeches had just finished, and there had been a spontaneous singing of “Auld Lang Syne.” People were getting up from their tables to visit or to head to the bar for drinks. Our table was breaking up too. The new premier and his wife had another function to attend, and they were already headed towards the doors that would take them out of the ballroom. Manda and Craig Evanson were standing, saying their goodbyes to Tess. Howard was talking to a group that had driven in from Stewart Valley. Jane O’Keefe was leaning across her brother-in-law, saying something to her sister. I couldn’t hear her words, but she didn’t look as if she’d cooled off much. A waiter came with a note in Hilda’s bold hand: “I think it’s time to revisit Harold Town. Don’t wait up. H.” It seemed like a good time to do some visiting myself. I was standing, looking for familiar faces in the crowd, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and Maureen Gault was behind me. She was smiling.

  “I thought I’d give you a chance to apologize,” she said.

  “For what?” I said.

  “For being rude when I came to your house.” She moved towards me. Close up, her perfume was overpowering. “Apologize, Joanne.”

  “Are you crazy?” I said.

  People at the tables closest to us fell silent, and my words rang out, bell clear.

  Maureen Gault’s pale eyes seemed to grow even lighter. “You’ll be sorry you said that, Joanne,” she said. “I’m not crazy. But I’m powerful. I can make things happen. Just ask them,” she said, and her hand swept in a half-circle that included everyone at the head table.

  She leaned towards me. “Ask them,” she hissed. “Ask your friends what Little Mo can do.” Her spittle sprayed my mouth.

  I rubbed my lips with the back of my hand. I was furious. “Get out,” I said. “This is a private party. Nobody wants you here.”

  She drew her hand back as if she was about to hit me. Then she seemed to change her mind. She looked thoughtfully at the head-tabl
e guests. “Tell Joanne I have every right to be here,” she said. Her eyes were so pale they were almost colourless. “I thought it was nice the way you sang when I came in. ‘Should old acquaintance be forgot,’ ” she laughed. “Nobody better forget me.”

  It was a good exit line, but she couldn’t leave it alone. When she had walked the length of the dais, Maureen Gault turned towards us. “I haven’t forgotten any of you, you know.”

  I could still feel her spittle on my lips. I took a step towards her. “I told you to leave us alone. You’re not the only one who can make things happen, Maureen. If you’re not out of here in thirty seconds, I’ll get somebody from hotel security to throw you out.”

  She smiled, then left.

  Howard’s group from Stewart Valley were wide-eyed. Life in the big city was every bit as exciting as it was cracked up to be. Craig tightened his grip on his wife’s shoulder. Sylvie looked impassively at the spot where Maureen had stood. Gary Stephens, who by all accounts should have been accustomed to strange women making public scenes, seemed thrown off base by Maureen Gault’s outburst. White-faced, he poured the heel of the wine into his glass and drained it in a gulp. Jane O’Keefe left the table. Tess Malone was lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. Only Manda Evanson was immune.

  “That’s one flaky lady,” she said mildly.

  We did our best to restore the mood. But after a few nervous jokes, it was apparent the party was over. I picked up my bag and headed for the door. I wanted to go home, have a hot shower, and fall apart in peace.

  There was a lineup outside the cloakroom. Regina is a government town, and the next morning was a work day. By the time I’d waded through the crush and found my coat, I was hot and irritable. My temper wasn’t improved when, after I’d tied my belt, I noticed my scarf was missing. I tried to check the coat-rack and the floor, but I kept getting jostled, and after I got an elbow in the eye, I gave up and went into the hall to wait till the crowd thinned. When, finally, I went back into the cloakroom, the scarf wasn’t there.