“And one day I realized I didn’t love the man I was married to … and that he didn’t love me. In fact, we didn’t really even like each other anymore. One night we were sitting on the deck … on this deck … and I said, ‘This really isn’t working, is it?’ and he looked almost relieved that he hadn’t had to say it. He was gone in a few days. Of course it wasn’t until several months later that I found out about Judith and that they’d been seeing each other for over a year before we split. Guess I was the stereotypical last one to find out wife.”
There was a solitary tear on her cheek and I wanted to brush it away but wasn’t sure she’d want me to do that.
After a minute she went on. “I told myself I could maybe fall in love again but that I’d never ever trust again, at least not like I did with Keith. And now here I am and I have fallen in love again — but the thing is, I do want to trust you. That’s the thing I’m working my way through.”
I nodded, lifted her hand to my lips, and kissed it. “I know there’s nothing I can say that will make that better for you. I hope one day you’ll feel you can believe in me as much as you believed in him. And if that’s going to take some time, that’s okay with me.”
There was a hint of a smile on her face as she said, “I love you, mister … so much.”
I took another sip of wine. “I guess there are two things I’m dealing with. One is guilt, the thing about why was it her and not me — survivor guilt. Stupid, I know, after all this time, and I know Donna would want me to be with someone that I care about. But I’m still troubled by that, I guess.”
Jill nodded but didn’t say anything.
“And the other thing is straight-up fear,” I told her. “Just as dumb, in a way, but when you’ve had someone you loved so much taken from you the way Donna was taken from me, there’s this fear, this … what if I love someone that much again and it happens again? What then?”
“Adam, all of us have to live with that every day. People have horrible car accidents, they get sick; there are a lot of things that can happen. But I don’t think we should live our lives as if something terrible could be just around the corner. I know I shouldn’t be saying this because I haven’t been through what happened to you. But it just seems sad to live with that fear every day. I hope you’ll be able to get past that.”
“I’m working on it, Jill, I really am. But I guess we both need a little more time, at least that’s how it seems to me.”
She nodded, her head moving gently in the growing shadows. “That’s how it seems to me, too.”
“Does your husband … does Keith know about Kyla’s Crohn’s?”
Jill nodded again. “Yes, he does. Kyla usually spends a month with him and Judith in Toronto every summer. I called him a couple of days ago to tell him that because of what’s going on with her health, we’d have to shorten it up, maybe a week in August if she’s doing okay.”
“How was he with that?”
“He was fine, though angry that I hadn’t let him know sooner, which I should have. But he was fine with Kyla coming for a shorter visit this year. He really is a pretty good guy when it comes to being a dad — just not quite as good at being a husband. But maybe he’s better at that, too, with his new wife.”
I reached for the bottle of Amarone and poured a little more into each of our glasses. I help up my glass for a toast. “Here’s to both of us working out the things we need to.”
We clinked glasses and she said, “Cheers to that. And to … like a family.”
I liked that and we smiled at each other, then she kissed me slow and warm.
I pulled back. “Oh my God,” I said.
“I hope you mean that in a good way,” Jill said. “That isn’t exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”
“No … no,” I stammered. “It wasn’t the kiss. I just remembered something. Don’t move.”
I jumped up, ran partway down the hall, and called, “Kyla, can you come out here, please?”
I looked back at Jill, who was shaking her head in a way that said she was saddened by the fact that I had just lost my mind.
When Kyla didn’t appear I called again. Nothing.
“She’s probably got headphones on so she can listen to her new CD without disturbing us. She won’t be able to hear you.”
“Right.” I nodded. I walked down the hallway and rapped on Kyla’s door, gently at first, then harder. The door opened and Kyla blinked at me as she pulled her headphones off.
“Did you knock?” she asked.
“I did, yes,” I told her. “High-level meeting in the living room. I have something to tell you and your mom. Sort of a surprise.”
“A good surprise?”
“I think so.”
She flipped the headphones onto her bed and followed me to the living room. She looked at her mom but got only a shrug by way of response.
As Kyla sat down next to Jill, I stepped dramatically to the centre of the room and said, “I hope neither of you ladies has a commitment tomorrow, because I have tickets for the Stampede rodeo. The three of us are going to be sitting in the infield grandstand, about twenty feet from the cowboys.”
Blood-curdling would best describe Kyla’s scream as she launched herself at me, throwing her arms around me in a hug that was just this side of a Michael Ferland bodycheck.
Jill beamed at me from the couch.
As Kyla released me, I sat back down and said, “So let me see if I’ve got this right. All I have to do to get on the good side of you two is get you close to a big bunch of cowboy hunks.”
“Uh-huh.” Kyla giggled.
“Works for me, too,” Jill said as she and her daughter high-fived each other, then me. As she leaned in to wrap her arms around my neck, she whispered, “Like a family.”
SIXTEEN
It was halfway through the steer wrestling — bulldogging in rodeo parlance — when I happened to glance up at the infield press box, off to my right. Lorne Cooney was sitting in the front row. His head bobbed up and down as his focus jumped back and forth from the action in the arena to his almost frenzied note-taking. My thought was: I’m looking at the only Jamaican rodeo reporter in the world.
The steer wrestling ended and there was a break in the action as a presentation was being made onstage. I told Jill and Kyla I’d be right back and strolled over in the direction of the press box. Lorne happened to look down and I waved and shrugged — my way of saying, What the hell are you doing here?
Lorne grinned — his default facial expression — and pointed to the beer garden behind the press box. Five minutes later we were enjoying a beer on a 28-plus Celsius day.
“What do you know about rodeo?” I laughed and took a swallow of cold brew. “Be like sending me to cover a conference on teenage dating rituals.”
“Too late,” Lorne said with a chuckle. “I did that one last year.”
He took a long pull on his beer and said, ‘You know what it’s like at the Herald, Adam, very few full-time writers and none of them wanted this gig. Then the guy they did hire could only work the first seven days. When I heard they needed somebody for the last three days, I bought a cowboy hat, read a couple of media guides, and watched Junior Bonner three times and bingo! here I am.”
I looked at him. “Steve McQueen.”
“Not a bad movie, actually.”
“Well, I hope you didn’t pay much for the hat.”
“Are you kidding me? Woman up there —” he jabbed a thumb in the direction of the press box — “she told me I looked just like John Wayne.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. Besides, I heard the Duke was heavy into reggae.”
“Yep, pilgrim,” he said, and we both laughed.
I pointed at him with my beer. “The funny thing is, I was going to call you. Wanted to pick your brain about something.”
“The Larme
r thing?”
I nodded. “We don’t have to talk about this right now.”
“No, I’m good right now. Lay it on me. And I appreciate that you didn’t say anything rude about the brain you’re wanting to pick.”
“Yeah, like I’d do that.” I grinned. “So, here’s the thing. I’m working on looking at other right-wing victims of violent, usually fatal attacks. I told him about the Fresno and Texas incidents and he nodded thoughtfully, knew about them in general terms.
“I wondered if you had any ideas on conservativethemed conferences, conventions, and the like that the victims might have attended. I’ve checked out a few but so far haven’t found any that had all of them in attendance at the same time.”
He nodded approvingly. “Not a bad idea if you’re looking for connections.”
“Maybe. Guess I’ll see if anything comes of it. Like I said, nada so far.”
“Don’t forget the less orthodox gatherings — those might be interesting, too.”
“What do you mean less orthodox?”
“I’ve heard rumblings, rumours that there were some pretty shadowy kind of underground gatherings of right-wing media, spokespersons, potential candidates, those kinds of people. Some of them run by quasi-Republican types. Pretty extreme, and very secretive. I never got close enough to get names or even places and dates of the events. But the word is, they’re a reality. And still taking place. The kind of people you’re talking about just might have gone to an event or two of that kind.”
I drained my beer. “Interesting thought. I have to get going — Jill and Kyla are up in the stands. Any chance you could send me what you’ve got on this stuff?”
“Sure, it’s not much, but if it’ll help, I’m happy to send it along. Anything new from your end on the Larmer thing?”
“Not a lot but we’ll keep plugging.”
Lorne chuckled. “A lot of people are hoping Larmer did it. And that he goes away for a long time. Your boy isn’t well-liked.”
“Who would’ve believed it. Anyway, better get back to your perch. Saddle bronc riding’s about to start.”
“Um …” Lorne said, “ help me out here, Adam. How’s this differ from what we saw earlier? Guys riding horses that buck, right?”
“The bareback riding, you mean? Pretty simple really. This one’s called saddle bronc riding because there’s a saddle. Bareback riding, no saddle. Duh. You better get back there and watch.”
Lorne grinned, nodded sagely, and headed for the press box. I bought three sandwiches and three bottles of water and headed for our seats. When I’d distributed lunch, Jill said, “Was that Lorne I saw you talking to?”
Jill had met Lorne a couple of times and just as almost everyone did, liked him instantly.
“Yeah, he’s covering the rodeo for the Herald.”
“Lorne Cooney, rodeo writer?” She was as incredulous as I had been.
“Not many people realize that all the best rodeo writers are from Jamaica.”
We both laughed and I turned to see that Kyla, who had been loving every minute of the rodeo, seemed even more focused as the younger steer riders were gathering behind the chutes in preparation for their event, which would follow the bronc riding. I looked down behind the chutes and noted, as Kyla no doubt already had, that this event featured cowboys not much older than she was.
All in all, a pretty good day.
I change the ring tone on my phone every few days so I won’t get bored. I had downloaded “At the Hundredth Meridian” the night before. What had seemed like an inspired idea at eleven-thirty the previous evening felt much less so at six-twenty in the morning, as The Hip started my day. I pried an eye open and glared first at the clock, then at the phone.
I considered not answering, but as emotional maturity returned I realized that early-morning phone calls are often purveyors of news, usually, though not always, bad. And I remembered that the daughter of the woman I love was still recovering from a bout of a serious illness.
I didn’t take the time to check caller ID and spoke as normally as I could into the phone. “Hello.”
I didn’t recognize the caller’s voice. Female, pleasant — didn’t sound like a bill collector or a Revenue Canada operator. I’d never actually spoken to one of the latter but I had always imagined a voice somewhere between Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men and Fran Drescher. This voice was neither.
“I hope I didn’t awaken you, Mr. Cullen.”
I did my best “Hell, I’ve been up for hours” impersonation.
“No problem. Something I can do for you this morning?”
“This is Anita Dekalb. I’m returning your call. I just arrived back in the country and am on my way from the airport to my home. Returning calls.”
“Sure,” I said, my mind scrambling to process the name. I was about to give in and ask her to refresh my memory when it hit me. Jasper Hugg’s ex.
“I … uh … appreciate your getting back to me, Ms. Dekalb, and I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Okay, first of all, I didn’t suffer any loss,” she said, her tone surprisingly matter-of-fact. “I’ll never celebrate anyone’s dying, especially the way I’ve heard Jasper’s life ended. But I hated the bastard. I didn’t come back for his funeral or whatever they’re doing for him. This was my planned return from a vacation in Britain and it just happens to be right after my former husband was stabbed to death. You can feel bad for Jasper if you care to, but don’t feel bad for me. I haven’t lost a goddamned thing.”
There was a part of me that wanted to say, Don’t hold back, Anita, baby, tell us how you really feel. But I had a feeling that living with Jasper Hugg involved challenges I wouldn’t have a clue about.
“Besides, your call to me was from before somebody stuck a blade into Jasper. So this isn’t about that.”
“Well, I guess in a sense it is. I’m part of a team that is representing Buckley-Rand Larmer. But you’re right. We were already involved with Larmer on another matter before your hus … ex-husband’s death. Now, of course, things have taken a —”
“Buckley-Rand and Jasper. Now there’s a couple of pricks for you. Now one’s dead and the other one’s in the can. That’s enough to send a girl to the Red Mile for an evening of celebrating.”
“I realize the timing is kind of bad with you just having returned from a trip, but I was hoping I might be able to talk with you in person. There are a few things you might be able to shed some light on.”
“Are you one of them?”
“Sorry, Ms. Dekalb, one of what?”
“Jasper Hugg and Buckley-Rand Larmer both define the word ‘asshole.’ Are you one?
“I’d like to believe I’m very different in the way I think from either Larmer or your late husband. But I will admit there are those who probably think I qualify for asshole-dom in other ways. You may have to decide for yourself.”
She didn’t laugh. “I’m going home to bed for a few hours. Then I want to unpack everything. You can call me between four and five this afternoon. Is my number on your call display?”
“Yes, it is. I —”
“Then I’ll hear from you later.”
The call ended and I finally sat up in bed. One thing the straight-from-the-hip, straight-from-the-lip Anita Dekalb had done was to bring me to a state of full consciousness.
I was suddenly looking forward to my chat with her. I crossed the floor to the stereo and put the first White Horse CD on, then climbed back into bed. Getting the rest of this day rolling was going to take a little time.
The next time I looked at my clock, it read eight-thirteen. I’d gone back to sleep and would forever be grateful to Luke and Melissa for making that possible.
The Calgary Police Service briefing got underway at eleven in the morning. Deputy Police Chief Darnell Edmunds was first to the podium, welcoming the media, then introd
ucing the police service members on hand, finally turning the microphone over to “Yvette Landry, the lead detective in the ongoing investigation.”
Landry was a confident, no-nonsense woman. Her summation of the charge against Buckley-Rand Larmer and the evidence against him was delivered succinctly and directly. It was a no-frills presentation and the police service had chosen wisely. She came across as credible and competent, just as Cobb had described her.
She touched briefly on some of the points Shulsky had indicated would be part of the Crown’s case if and when it came to trial. She emphasized the opportunity and motive elements of the case, noting that “in Mr. Larmer’s own words, he walked to work later on the morning of the attack on Mr. Hugg. The time of the attack suggests that the accused had ample opportunity and time to drive to his place of employment, commit the crime, return the crime vehicle to the garage, clean it up, and set off for work a second time, this time on foot.”
A couple of reporters’ hands went up, but Landry shook her head. “There will be time for questions at the end.”
She glanced at her notes before looking up and continuing with what I thought was the most important, though not unexpected, information conveyed. “Our forensic team completed its examination of Mr. Larmer’s vehicle, a 2012 Lincoln Navigator SUV, and has confirmed that traces of blood were found on the front seat and floor of the vehicle. The samples are undergoing DNA testing and we will clearly know more once we are able to confirm whose blood it is. Some effort had been made to remove the blood from the vehicle, but that effort was not entirely successful and, as I have noted, significant samples of someone’s blood were discovered in and recovered from the vehicle. If it is found that the blood is that of the victim, Jasper Hugg, that would establish with some certainty that this is the vehicle the perpetrator drove after committing the crime that resulted in Mr. Hugg’s death.”
My head snapped up at that. I wondered if a good lawyer would have much difficulty in dissecting that statement if it were made in court.
Having completed her statement, Landry nodded and stepped back from the podium. Clifford Frobisher, a police lieutenant in the information services department, took her place and opened the floor to questions. This was often the time when interesting discoveries were made — areas where the police case was lacking or points within the investigation that had not been addressed. Today, however, there were no fireworks and nothing was asked that Detective Landry couldn’t manage with relative ease. I’m not sure if that was because the police case was rock solid (I didn’t think it was) or because the media in attendance were either uninterested or poorly prepared or both. I couldn’t believe there wasn’t major interest in the media given that a member of that fraternity was the accused in a spectacular and gruesome murder.
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