The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn

by Gail Bowen

  Nathan was in his place at the nursing station. When I called out to him, he picked up Hilda’s chart from the desk. “Look at that,” he said, pointing to the latest figures on the Glasgow Coma Scale. “If she keeps progressing at this rate, we’ll be able to move her out of intensive care.”

  “She’s doing that well?”

  Nathan gave me the thumbs-up sign. “The numbers never lie.”

  As soon as I saw Hilda, I knew I didn’t need the Glasgow Coma Scale to tell me that she was better. The signs were imperceptible but real. Everything about my old friend suggested that, sometime in the hours since I’d last seen her, she had crossed the divide that separates the sick from the well. I walked over to her bed, but, worried about germs, I didn’t bend to kiss her. It was enough just to know that she’d decided to rejoin us.

  I glanced at the photograph that I had taped to her bed when she’d first been brought to intensive care. For the first time, the picture of Hilda sitting in our canoe didn’t make my eyes sting. The day I’d snapped that picture, Hilda had taken Taylor up to the top of a hill to pick wild strawberries. They had returned with sun-pink cheeks, mosquito bites, and mouths stained with fruit. Seeing them coming triumphantly towards me with an ice cream pail half-full of berries had been one of the best memories of the summer. Now it seemed possible there would be other sun-filled days, other memories.

  “I knew you were indestructible,” I said.

  Hilda didn’t open her eyes but she turned at the sound of my voice. “For a while, I had my doubts,” she whispered. Then she smiled and went back to sleep.

  My banner day continued. Howard Dowhanuik was a major hit with my senior class. Freed by retirement of the politician’s need to weigh his words, our ex-premier was profane, indiscreet, knowledgeable, and funny, and the kids loved him.

  When the last admiring student had wandered off, he turned to me. “I believe it’s payback time. Does the Faculty Club still have that excellent bottle of fifteen-year-old Dalwhinnie tucked away?”

  “They do, but, Howard, will you take a rain check? I’ve been promising myself a nap all day.”

  He was a big man, and he had the habit some big men in politics have of using their size as a tool to cajole. He draped an arm around my shoulders, dwarfing me. “Scotch would do you more good. Now that you’re over fifty, why don’t you let go of some of that caution? Open up a little. Embrace life.”

  I removed his arm from my shoulder. “I am planning to embrace life,” I said. “That’s why I need a nap.”

  As soon as I got home, I took some more echinacea and wrote the kids a note saying I was upstairs in bed. I slept for an hour and, when I woke up, I felt better. After I’d showered, I started to change into my sweats; when I remembered that Alex was coming over, I replaced the sweats with my new silk blouse and a pair of slacks. I was burrowing through my jewellery drawer for the mate to my best gold hoop earring when I thought about my meeting with Garnet Dishaw. I picked up the phone and dialled Alex’s number to make sure he wouldn’t come by while I was gone. Eli answered on the first ring. He sounded keyed-up and anxious.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “It’s Jo, Eli. How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay. Do you want my uncle? Because he’s not here.”

  “Will you get him to call me when he comes in?”

  “Is that all?”

  “No,” I said. “Your uncle and I had a long talk today. We’re back together again, Eli, at least we’re going to try to be, and we want you to be part of the picture. I’ve missed you – so have Angus and Taylor.”

  “They’re not mad at me?”

  “No.”

  “And they’re not scared of me?

  “Why would they be scared of you?”

  He didn’t answer. As the silence between us lengthened, I gave up. “If you ever want to talk, I’m a pretty good listener.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Eli, I mean it. Any time you need me, I’m here.”

  “I’ll remember that,” he said, then he hung up.

  I was sitting at the kitchen table shuffling through take-out menus when Angus came downstairs. He’d obviously squeezed in a visit to the barber after school, and he was dressed for success: shined loafers; pressed slacks, and the jacket, shirt, and tie we’d bought for Madeleine’s upcoming baptism.

  “You’re looking pretty GQ for dinner from Pizza Hut,” I said.

  He frowned at a piece of lint on his jacket sleeve. “Mum, I’m eating at the Draches tonight, remember? Mrs. Drache’s brother is here from Toronto. He’s a rabbi. Leah’s even taking out all the rings from her body piercings.”

  “Talk about formal,” I said. “What’s Leah doing about that tattoo of the foxes chasing the lion?”

  “Her mother bought her a long-sleeved dress. You should see it, Mum. She looks great, but she doesn’t look like Leah. Anyway, I won’t be late. Mrs. Drache says her brother needs his sleep.”

  “A man after my own heart,” I said.

  Angus looked quizzical. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Have fun, and say hi to the Draches for me.”

  Taylor and I passed up pizza in favour of won-ton soup, Chinese vegetables, and a double order of her favourite almond prawns from Kowloon Kitchen. As we ate, I filled her in on the visit we were going to pay Garnet Dishaw. As always, she was keen to extend the circle of her acquaintance, but when I mentioned that Garnet and I would need some time alone to talk, she looked thoughtful.

  “I’ll need some fresh books from the library to take with me,” she said.

  “Taylor, the library’s downtown, and Mr. Dishaw lives out by the airport.”

  “I’ve already read the books I’ve got a hundred times.”

  Most of the time, Taylor was an accommodating child, but when she dug her heels in, there was no budging her. “Okay,” I said, “we’ll go to the library, but you’ll have to promise me you’ll tread easy with Mr. Dishaw. I’m not sure he’s used to kids. Now come on, let’s fill up the bookbag. The library’s waiting.”

  As I walked by Hilda’s room, I stopped and looked in. Everything was just as she’d left it, shining and ordered. Her bed was neatly made; her makeup kit, hairbrush, and comb were carefully arranged on the guest towel she always placed on the vanity to protect the finish; the books she had been reading the night before the attack were centred on her nightstand. Even the library books she had taken out when she’d been in search of an appropriate quote for Justine’s funeral were still on Mieka’s old desk, neatly aligned, and, it suddenly occurred to me, overdue.

  The books were on my card, and Hilda would be mortified if she knew they hadn’t been returned promptly. She had, I noticed, made quite a selection: Francis Bacon; Thomas Aquinas; Plutarch; and, the winner, Montaigne. I picked up the Essays. The envelope containing Justine’s authorization was still where Hilda had slipped it to mark her place the morning before Justine’s funeral. Events since then had given a painful resonance to the words Hilda had finally chosen: “What? Have you not lived? That is not only the fundamental but the most illustrious of your occupations.… To compose our character is our duty.… Our great and glorious masterpiece is to live appropriately.”

  I closed the book, but not before I’d removed the envelope. As far as I was concerned, if Hilda was going to live appropriately from now on, she had to be as far as possible from Justine and her troubled life. It would be a distinct pleasure to put a match to this document that had caused my old friend so much grief. I started to put the envelope in my pocket, but curiosity drove me to read Justine’s final written instructions one last time.

  When I took out Justine’s letter, there was a surprise. Enclosed in the single folded sheet of expensive letterhead were two items that hadn’t been there the morning Hilda and I had discussed Justine’s life. The first was a slip of paper upon which were written two names, a Chicago address, and a telephone number with a 312 area code; the second was a cancelled
cheque for thirty thousand dollars made out to Tina Blackwell and signed by Justine. The cheque was almost a year old. I turned it over. On the back were Tina’s endorsement and the stamp of the branch of the bank that had cashed it. As I read the information, I felt my nerves twang. Justine’s cheque had found its way halfway across the country to Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. Until her recent financial reversals, Lunenburg had been Lucy Blackwell’s home town.

  CHAPTER

  13

  It had started to rain by the time Taylor and I chose our library books and set out for Palliser Place. My younger daughter was full of plans. Buoyed by the news of Hilda’s recovery, she’d checked out the video of Anne of Green Gables to watch when she and I got back from our visit. As our windshield wipers slapped rhythmically at the rain, the notion of losing myself in the blossom-heavy trees and azure skies of Prince Edward Island grew increasingly seductive, but the brutal realities of Justine’s life made escape impossible.

  The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, and the picture that was emerging was a troubling one. There was no doubt in my mind that Larry and Paula Erle, the Chicago couple whose name and address had been in Justine’s private papers, were the parents of the boy who had committed suicide because of Signe Rayner’s treatment. Justine’s reasons for keeping the Erles’ address close at hand were less clear, but an unsettling possibility presented itself. If, as Eric Fedoruk had suggested, Justine had been determined to force her daughter to give up her psychiatric practice, the Erles would have been a useful weapon to have at the ready.

  There was logic to my theory that Justine was prepared to use the Erles as a lever to pry Signe loose from her profession, but I was still grappling with the significance of the cancelled cheque. The reason for the cheque’s journey from Regina to Lunenburg seemed clear enough. Somehow, Lucy had persuaded Tina to sign the money over to her. The endorsed cheque was certainly evidence that Lucy was a deeply flawed human being, but why had Hilda considered it important enough to remove from Justine’s other records? By the time we pulled into the parking lot at Palliser Place, I still hadn’t come up with a satisfactory answer.

  Tonight, the pretty young woman behind the reception desk was wearing a lime-and-black-striped zipper-fronted Fortrel pantsuit. When I asked her where Garnet Dishaw was, she yawned and indicated the area behind her. “The place he always is when he’s not in the hallway hitting balls around – in the dining room, watching the Golf Channel on the big-screen TV.

  As soon as she turned her back, Taylor whispered, “I really like that girl’s clothes.”

  “I used to have an outfit like that before Mieka was born,” I said.

  “Wear it again,” Taylor said enthusiastically. “You’d look good with that zipper.”

  The tables in the dining room were set for breakfast, but the chalkboard inside the door still announced the evening meal. The menu was filled with exclamation marks: Beef Surprise!! Buttered Rice!! Garden Green Beans!! But the damp smell of food that had been held too long on steam tables revealed the unpalatable truth. The food at Palliser Place was not just institutional, it was lousy.

  Garnet Dishaw had pulled a chair over in front of the biggest TV I’d ever seen. On the screen, two men were talking about a golf course, which was theatrically green and perfect.

  “That’s Old Head in Ireland,” Garnet said. Painfully, he pushed himself to a standing position. “Isn’t it a beauty?”

  “It’s nice,” Taylor said. “But grass isn’t really that colour.”

  Garnet looked at her severely. “Only a person born and bred on the short-grass prairie would be that suspicious. Are you a stubble-jumper?”

  Taylor glanced up at me, questioningly.

  “You were born in Saskatoon, and you’ve lived in Saskatchewan all your life,” I said, “so I guess you qualify.”

  “Anyway,” my daughter said with a shrug, “I’m Taylor Love.”

  Garnet made a courtly bow. “Garnet Dishaw,” he said, “and I’m honoured to make your acquaintance.” He turned to me. “Now, under other circumstances, my suggestion would be that we go back to my room and sample that excellent whisky peeking so seductively out of your bag. But I expect Ms. Love might like to eat some ice cream and watch TV.”

  “I would like that,” Taylor said agreeably.

  “Splendid,” he said. “This institution has Dixie Cups by the truckload. Ice cream is their method of quelling potential insurrection from the inmates. And, Mrs. Kilbourn, we have coffee. A poor substitute for Johnny Walker, nonetheless …”

  “Coffee would be fine,” I said.

  Despite our offers of help, Garnet Dishaw insisted on bringing the ice cream and coffee from the kitchen himself. The task wasn’t easy for him, but he performed it gracefully. When, finally, he had Taylor settled with her ice cream in front of the giant TV, and he and I had found a table out of earshot, he turned to me.

  “Let’s begin by laying our cards on the table, Mrs. Kilbourn. In my opinion, Justine was as sane as you are. I saw her three days before she died. She was sound as a dollar. Now, where do you stand?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but after yesterday, I think I’m moving towards your camp. For me, the piece of evidence that weighed most heavily against Justine was the fact that she’d let strangers be buried in her family’s cemetery plot. It just seemed so crazy, but one of Justine’s friends at Culhane House offered me a new perspective.”

  When I’d finished my précis of Wayne J.’s explanation, Garnet Dishaw chuckled. “So Justine thought Dick would be better off spending eternity with the usual suspects than with his nearest and dearest, eh? Still, it’s no laughing matter deciding you don’t want to buried next to your own children.”

  “Not much fun seeing yourself as Lear, either,” I said.

  “ ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is/To have a thankless child.’ ” Garnet Dishaw’s face was grim. “Poor Justine. First that terrible business when Dick died, now this.”

  “What terrible business? When I was here with Keith, you said Richard Blackwell died of a broken heart. What broke his heart?”

  Garnet sipped his coffee. “A lie,” he said. “Someone told him Justine was having an affair. It wasn’t true, of course, but Justine’s accuser made a cruel choice in selecting the putative paramour. Sadly, Richard, who was usually the most perceptive of men, was blind to the motivations of the tale-bearer. By the time he arrived at my apartment with the story, he was a beaten man. He loved his family, and he made me promise never to tell a living soul. Forty-eight hours after Richard’s midnight visit, he was dead.” Garnet Dishaw’s clever old face grew thoughtful. “There’s nothing like death to give a casual promise the force of a blood oath.”

  “Who was Justine supposed to be having an affair with?”

  Garnet Dishaw shuddered. “The boy next door.”

  “But there’s only one house next door to Justine, and Eric Fedoruk said he’d lived there all his life.”

  “He had,” Garnet said simply.

  It took a moment before the penny dropped. “But Richard Blackwell died in 1967,” I said. “Hilda told me he had his heart attack at a Centennial dinner. Eric Fedoruk couldn’t have been more than …”

  “Fifteen,” Garnet Dishaw said. “Justine was forty and Richard was sixty-five.”

  “Who would make up something like that?”

  Garnet’s face closed in on itself. “No,” he said, “that’s one part of the story I won’t tell. It may have been thirty years ago, but I have to honour my word to Richard there.”

  I sipped my coffee. “That’s all right,” I said. “I have a pretty good idea who told him. All I need to know is whether you’re certain there was no truth to the accusation.”

  “I’m certain,” Garnet said. “I’ve known Eric since he articled with our firm. There’s not a chance in the world he would have had a sexual encounter with Justine. He had as little interest in physical intimacy as she did.”

&nbs
p; Taylor and I didn’t stay long. After his revelation, Garnet Dishaw seemed somehow spent, and I was increasingly anxious to get in touch with Alex. Besides, we were no longer alone. The Saskatchewan–Toronto football game was being televised, and the residents of Palliser Place, decked out in the green and white, were arriving to cheer on the Roughriders.

  We walked Garnet back to his room. Before he went inside, he shook hands with Taylor, then he took both my hands in his. “Be careful, Mrs. Kilbourn. We’ve already sacrificed one fine woman to this madness.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I said. I took the bottle of Johnny Walker out of my bag and passed it to him. “And I’ll come back to help you make a dent in this.”

  His voice was firm. “Do I have your word on that?”

  “You have my word,” I said.

  In the time we had been inside Palliser Place, the wind had picked up and the rain had grown heavier. Taylor and I had a soggy run to our car. As we drove home, Taylor, keyed-up by her visit and by the wildness of the night, prattled happily, but I was suddenly exhausted. It had been a long day, and the ache in my muscles and the soreness in my throat now made undeniable a fact I had spent the day denying: I was sick.

  Spurred on by our agreement that she could watch half an hour of Anne of Green Gables after she’d had her bath, Taylor went straight upstairs. As soon as I heard the water running, I went into the family room to call Alex. When I picked up the phone, the beep indicating that I had a message was insistent. I tapped in our password. At first there was silence, and I thought the call was a prank. Then I heard Eli’s voice, very agitated. “I’m a bad person,” he said. “I’ve done bad things. It was her mother who died. I saw it on TV. I had to tell her about the blood. There was so much blood. It was everywhere.” The line went dead. I replayed the message. Even when I was prepared for Eli’s words, they chilled me. I dialled the number of the apartment. Alex answered on the first ring.