The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn

by Gail Bowen

  Polly brightened. “You can have the Lunenburg cabbage too,” she said. “I’ll even throw in some potatoes. Now if I could only find a home for that stupid trifle.”

  I thought of Julie’s poisonous dismissal of Alex. “Polly, do you know where the Indian-Métis Friendship Centre is?”

  “Sure,” she said. “It’s on Dewdney. Actually, it’s not far from my shop.”

  “Good,” I said. “Why don’t you drop the old-country trifle off there on your way back? Tell them it’s a gift from an admirer.”

  Her eyes widened. “Not Mrs. Gallagher?”

  I nodded.

  “Cool,” she said, and for the first time since she’d come in out of the rain, Polly Abbey smiled.

  When I opened the front door to our house, Benny, my younger daughter’s ginger cat, was waiting. He looked at me assessingly. As usual, I didn’t pass muster, and he wandered off. Somewhere in the distance the Cranberries were singing, but theirs were the only human voices I heard.

  “Hey,” I shouted. “Anybody home?”

  Taylor came running. She was wearing the current costume of choice for girls in her grade-one class: jeans, a plaid shirt, and a ponytail anchored by a scrunchy.

  “Me. I’m home, and Angus and Leah are downstairs,” she said, reaching her arms out for a hug. Benny, who had a sixth sense for the exact moment at which Taylor’s affections wandered from him, reappeared and began rubbing against her leg. She picked him up, and he shot me a look of triumph.

  “Guess what?” Taylor said. “I lost a tooth, and I’m going to draw a mural for the Kids Convention.” She shifted Benny to the crook of her arm, and pulled her lip up with her thumb and forefinger. “Look!”

  “The front one,” I said. “That’s a loonie tooth.”

  “Serious?”

  “Serious,” I said. “Now tell me about the Kids Convention.”

  “All I know is it’s after Easter holidays and I’m making a mural about the Close-Your-Eyes Dance.”

  “The story Alex told you. He’ll be pleased.”

  “I’m going to do it in panels. The first one’s gonna be where that hungry guy …”

  “Nanabush,” I said.

  “… where he sees those ducks. Then I’m going to show him singing and drumming, so he can trick them. You really think Alex will like it?”

  “I know he will,” I said. “Now, come on, let’s get cracking. We have to eat early because I’m going out.”

  Taylor’s face fell. “I hate it when you go out.”

  I put my arms around her. “I know, T, but we’ve talked about this before. I’m never gone for long. And Leah and Angus are staying with you. If you like, you can invite Leah for supper.”

  Taylor’s gaze was intense. “You promise you’ll come back?”

  “I promise,” I said. “Now, I’m going to go change into something warm. Why don’t you go find Leah and ask her if she likes corned beef and cabbage. If you guys play your cards right, I might even throw in green milkshakes.”

  Reassured, at least for the time being, Taylor ambled off towards the family room. In the past few months she’d become troubled when I left at night. Her fearfulness was something I’d been half-expecting since her mother died suddenly and Taylor had come to live with us. Even before her mother’s death, Taylor’s life had been tumultuous, and at first, when she had come to us, she had seemed relieved just to know that, when she woke up in the morning, the day ahead was going to be pretty much like the day before. But when her best friend’s father died shortly before Christmas, Taylor had been shaken. As she watched Jess grieve for his father, she grieved too, and she grew anxious. At six and a half, the awareness that we are moored to our happiness by fragile threads had hit her hard. I was doing my best to reassure her, but some nights my best just wasn’t good enough. As I changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, I was hoping this particular night wasn’t one of them.

  When I brought Polly Abbey’s dinner in from the car, Taylor was sitting at the kitchen table, drawing. Benny was on her lap, and she looked so content I uncrossed my fingers. Maybe my going out wasn’t going to be a problem after all.

  When she heard me, Taylor glanced up. “I almost forgot. A lady called you,” she said.

  “Do you remember her name?”

  Taylor’s face pinched in concentration, then she lit up. “It’s Kellee,” she said. “Her name is Kellee and today’s her birthday, and she’s going to call back.”

  “Swell,” I said. Then I took down the butcher knife and began slicing the corned beef. When I had the platter filled, the phone rang. I picked up the receiver without much enthusiasm, but I was in luck. It wasn’t the birthday girl on the line; it was Alex.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’m just slicing up the funeral baked meats.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “The caterer came when I was at Julie’s, and I bought some of the corned beef they were going to have at the party. Any chance you can join us?”

  “Nope. We’re still searching this place for evidence, so I’m not going anywhere for a while. Anyway, there’s something about a crime scene that takes away the appetite.”

  “At least you’re free of Julie. Did she ever find her white knight?”

  He laughed. “No. She decided to stick with me.”

  “Is she there now?”

  “No, but she was. I tried to talk her out of coming. I thought it would be easier on her if she waited until they took her husband down to pathology at the hospital, but the lady was insistent.”

  “So she saw him there.”

  “Yeah, in all his glory.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “Weirdly. Not that there’s any rule about how to react when you see your dead husband decked out in leather and lace, but I would have thought it’d be a sight to grab a wife’s attention.”

  “And it didn’t grab Julie’s?”

  “Not for long. Jo, did you notice this afternoon how quickly she zeroed in on the question of whether Gallagher was alone when he died?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you make of it?”

  “The obvious. I thought Julie was afraid Reed was having an affair.”

  “That seemed to be her focus while she was here, too. We’d already sealed the scene, so she couldn’t get past the threshold, but she kept leaning in, looking around. One of the ident officers asked if he could help, but she just shook her head and kept on looking.”

  “What do you think she thought she’d find?”

  “Given her concern this afternoon about whether Gallagher was alone when his body was discovered, I would guess that she thought she might find some evidence of his sexual partner.”

  “Poor Julie,” I said. “She and Reed seemed so happy at the wedding, but apparently they really did have problems. The young woman they’d hired to cater their party told me Reed called her last night and said the dinner was cancelled.”

  Alex’s voice was tight with interest. “Did she give you the time when he called?”

  “No, but you can check. Her name is Polly Abbey and her company’s called Abbey Road Catering – it’s on Dewdney.”

  “Got it,” he said. Then he paused. “Jo, am I missing something here? When we were at the Gallaghers’ today, didn’t you get the impression that the party was still on?”

  “Yes, because it was. Polly Abbey said Julie called her last night to re-book. Maybe that’s what Julie and Reed fought about.”

  “Maybe,” he said wearily. “Or maybe they fought over the fact that she didn’t share his sexual tastes. When it comes to domestic disputes, causes are never in short supply.”

  “Do you know anything more about what happened to Reed?”

  “Splatter says that, judging from the condition of the body, Gallagher died last night.”

  “Who’s Splatter?”

  “Sorry, he’s our M.E. – the medical examiner. His real name is Sherman Zimbard
o. The guys call him Splatter because he’s got this uncanny ability to interpret blood patterns at a crime scene.”

  “I’m sorry I asked.”

  “Actually, I think the guys see the nickname as a kind of compliment. Anyway, Zimbardo says he should have more solid information about how Reed Gallagher died after he’s completed the autopsy. Till then, we’re just calling it a suspicious death.”

  “Which means …?”

  “Which means that we don’t know what happened, but there are enough loose ends to keep us interested for a while. Zimbardo says he’s seen a couple of cases like this.”

  “You mean with the hood and the cord?”

  “Yeah. Apparently, they indicate a particular type of auto-eroticism.”

  “Sex play on your own.”

  “Right. How did you know that?”

  “I took Greek and Latin at school.”

  “Fair enough. Anyway, this particular variation of auto-eroticism is called … wait a minute, the name’s in my notes … it’s called hypoxyphilia. Did you cover that in class?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Good. It’s a dangerous business. The people who practise it apparently find sex more interesting when they cut off their oxygen. Every so often the fun and games get out of hand, then we have to cut them down.”

  “That doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “It doesn’t appeal to me much either.”

  “I didn’t mean the kinkiness. I meant that I don’t understand why a man like Reed Gallagher would have a fight with his wife and decide that the next step was to hop in the car, drive downtown to a rooming house, and go through some sort of bizarre masturbation ritual.”

  “Zimbardo’s done some reading on the subject. He says people who are into hypoxyphilia claim that it’s a great stress-reliever.”

  “I think I’ll stick to single-malt Scotch.” I said. “And from what I’d seen of Reed Gallagher, I would have thought that would be his solution, too.”

  “The leather and lace doesn’t sound to you like something he’d do?”

  “No,” I said, “Reed always struck me as a man who coped with life head-on.”

  “But you didn’t know him well.”

  “No,” I said. “Not well at all.” Just then I heard the call-waiting signal. “Alex, could you hang on? I’ve got a beep.”

  At first, all I heard on the other line was music and party sounds. Then there was giggling, and Kellee Savage said, “Can you hear them singing? Well, they don’t have as much reason to sing as I do.” Her words were slurred. It was obvious that she’d been drinking, but I’d had enough. Birthday or no, Kellee Savage was going to have to find somebody else to play with.

  “Kellee, I’ll have to talk to you later. I have an important call on the other line.”

  “This is an important call,” she said belligerently. “I’ve figured it all out. Exactly why he’s after me all the time. Here’s what’s happening …”

  “Kellee, I really have to go. If you want to talk to me, come to my office Monday morning.” I clicked off, but not before I heard someone in the bar begin to sing “Danny Boy.”

  When I apologized for keeping him waiting, Alex’s voice was easy. “It’s okay,” he said. “I was just remembering the Gallaghers’ wedding.”

  “I would have thought you’d want to excise that from your memory.”

  “It wasn’t that bad, Jo. At least nobody called me Chief. Anyway, the whole thing just seems so sad now. I keep thinking about those birds they had on the wedding cake.”

  “The doves,” I said. “They were made of sugar. It’s been years since I’ve seen any that weren’t made of plastic.”

  “Julie Gallagher made them herself,” Alex said. “She told me she couldn’t find a store in town that sold them.”

  “That’s Julie for you. Always gilding her own lily.”

  “I don’t think it was that,” Alex said softly. “Mrs. Gallagher told me there was an old wives’ tale that every sugar dove on a wedding cake brought a year of happiness, and she wanted to make sure that she and her husband had a lifetime-full.”

  Despite my sad mood, dinner that night was fun. Angus’s new girlfriend, Leah Drache, had a good head on her shoulders and a knack for smoothing over raw edges. Leah also had, according to Taylor, who had asked, thirteen separate body piercings. I’d seen the seven on Leah’s ears, the two on her left eyebrow, the one through her right nostril, and the one in her navel. As we drank our green milkshakes and listened to Toad the Wet Sprocket, I tried not to think about the location of the other two.

  When we started to clear off the table, Taylor stayed at her place, staring out into the night. I went back and sat beside her. “Penny for your thoughts, T,” I said.

  Her voice was small and sad. “I wish you didn’t have to go out tonight.”

  “So do I. But a book launch is a special thing. It’s a lot of work to write a book, and the man who wrote this one is Jill’s boyfriend.”

  “Is he nice?”

  I pointed towards the garage. “Look at the size of that branch the wind blew down. I’ll bet Angus could cut it up and make a good scratching post for Benny.”

  Angus, who knew I didn’t like Tom Kelsoe, turned from the sink where he was scraping his plate and gave me a sidelong smile. “Nice feint, Mum.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That means a lot coming from the master-feinter.” I gave Taylor a quick hug. “Okay, kiddo, it’s time for me to grab a shower and get dressed. The sooner I get there, the sooner I get home.”

  The phone on my nightstand rang just as I’d finished undressing. I ignored it and continued into the bathroom. As soon as I turned on the shower, Angus hollered, “It’s for you!” I grabbed a towel and swore. The law of averages that day pointed towards a bad-news phone call.

  Kellee Savage didn’t even bother to say hello. “I’ve got proof,” she said. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything till it was all checked, but I can’t find him, so what’s the point of waiting?” She enunciated each syllable carefully, confirming to herself and to the world that she was still sober. In the background I could hear laughter, but there was no mirth in Kellee’s voice.

  “Kellee, I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Who is it that you can’t find?”

  “That’s confidential, and a good journalist honours confidences.” For a beat she was silent, then she said sulkily, “And a good journalist knows when to get the story out. I don’t care if he thinks I should wait. It’s my story, and I’m getting it out. In fact, I’m coming to your house right now to tell you what’s happening. You’ll be sorry you didn’t believe me.”

  “Kellee, it’s a rotten night. You’ll feel a lot better tomorrow if you just go back to your own place and go to bed.”

  “I don’t wanna go to bed. It’s my birthday. I’m s’posed to get my way. I have a birthday song. My mum made it up when I was little. ‘Oh Kellee girl, today is your birthday and smiles and fun will last the whole day long.’ ” She fell silent. “I forget the rest.”

  “Kellee, please. Call a cab and go home.”

  “Can’t,” she said. “I’m a journalist. Got to get the story out. Besides I used up all my quarters phoning you.”

  “I’ll call the taxi for you. Just tell me where you are.”

  She snorted. “Oh no, you don’t. I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to stop me. He probably called and warned you that I’m dangerous.” She giggled. “Well, I am dangerous. You know why? Because I’m a journalist, and if we’re good, we’re dangerous.” There was a long silence, and I wondered if she’d passed out. But as luck would have it, she rallied. “Stay tuned,” she slurred, then she slammed down the receiver so hard, it hurt my eardrum.

  I walked back to the bathroom, stepped into the shower stall, lifted my face towards the shower head and turned the water on full force. It was going to take a real blast to wash away the last three hours.

  CHAPTER

  3<
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  Tom Kelsoe’s book launch was being held at the university Faculty Club on the second floor of College West. I’d been to some great parties there, but as I walked through the door that night, I knew this wasn’t going to be one of them. Real shamrocks and shillelaghs that looked as if they could be real were everywhere, but the mood was sombre. The lounge to the right of the entrance area was jammed. Ordinarily, guests picked up their drinks at the bar and drifted into one of the larger rooms; that night, people weren’t drifting. It was apparent from their pale and anxious faces that the news of Reed Gallagher’s death had spread, and that the rumours were swirling.

  Several of the people I’d left messages for that afternoon spotted me in the doorway and came over. They were full of questions, but I hid behind Alex’s statement that, until the police had finished their investigations, Reed’s death was being classified as accidental. It wasn’t a satisfactory answer, but no one seemed to have the heart to press me.

  I made my way through to the bar and ordered Glenfiddich on the rocks. When it came, I took a long sip; the warmth spreading through my veins felt so good, I took another.

  “There are times when only single-malt Scotch will do.” The voice behind me was throaty and familiar.

  “And this is one of them,” I said. “Care to join me?”

  Jill Osiowy scrutinized my glass longingly. “Tom and I are off hard liquor,” she said.

  I turned to face her. There was no denying that the abstemious life agreed with her. I’d hedged when Taylor asked me about my feelings for Tom, but even I had to admit that the effect he was having on her lifestyle was a positive one. In the years I had known her, Jill had been a workaholic: routinely putting in fourteen-hour workdays, subsisting on junk food, too busy to exercise, and too tense at the end of the day to unwind without a couple of stiff drinks.

  Tom Kelsoe had changed all that. He was into vegetarianism and weight training, and now so was she. She had never been heavy, but now she was very lean and muscular. Her auburn hair was cut in a fashionable new way that made her look ten years younger. She was wearing black lace-up boots, form-fitting black velvet pants, and an extravagantly beautiful jade jacket with a black mandarin collar and elaborate black fastenings.