Burying Ariel

by Gail Bowen

  I filled Willie’s dish, plugged in the coffee, and stripped off my wet clothes. As I headed for the shower, I glanced at the caller ID on the telephone. Alex Kequahtooway had phoned. I looked at the clock. It would be 8:30 in Ottawa.

  In the time it took to dial his cell number, I decided I wouldn’t bring up the subject of Ariel Warren. Unless he had talked to one of his colleagues on the Regina police force, it was unlikely Alex would have heard of her death. He had been excited about giving the course on minorities and the justice system to a class of senior civil servants. It was a chance for him to talk to people who could make a difference, and he didn’t need to be distracted by problems at home.

  When I heard his voice, I almost weakened. “I miss you,” I said. “Willie and I just got back from our walk, and I’m standing here naked, wet, and cold. I wish you were here.”

  “So do I.”

  “How are you at phone sex?” I said. “Under the circumstances, I’m up for anything.”

  “So am I,” he said evenly. “Unfortunately, I’m in class right now. We take a break in an hour. If you’ll leave me a number where you can be reached, I’ll get back to you and we can try that new procedure.”

  The flush started at my toes and ended at my scalp. “Alex, are all those government people sitting there listening?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I must be pathological.”

  “Not pathological,” he said. “Just healthy. Giving me some energy to rechannel. This is going to be the most inspired class I’ve taught since I got here.”

  “Baudelaire said he wrote with his penis.”

  “The French have some interesting systems,” he said mildly. “I’ll see what I can do about putting that one into place.”

  When I stepped out of the shower, the phone was ringing. I picked it up. “Still naked,” I said, “but now clean, and with that hemp oil you gave me for Valentine’s Day at the ready.”

  “I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number.” The voice of the woman on the other end of the line was familiar.

  “You don’t have the wrong number, Livia. I should apologize. I was expecting someone else.”

  “I’m glad you have love in your life,” she said.

  Her tone was guileless, but I felt a pang. There was no love in Livia’s life, at least not the kind that involved hemp-oil massages. Late one night when we were walking to the parking lot together, Livia had confided that since her marriage ended she had been celibate and that celibacy brought her peace. I had scrambled unsuccessfully for a sensible response, but driving home I realized that if my husband had dumped me as publicly and as brutally as Kenneth Brook had dumped Livia, I might have considered celibacy, too. He had chosen his wife’s birthday party to do his dirty deed and, after three years, the memory of that evening still made me want to bury my head in the sand.

  From the outset, the party had been out of control: the drinks were too strong, and the toasts too frequent; the meal was served so late that people simply rearranged the food on their plates, poured themselves another double, and lurched towards the next indiscretion. When Kenneth Brook tapped his glass, boomed that he wanted our attention, and draped an arm over Livia’s shoulder, the room fell silent. It seemed that, despite their tempestuous relationship, Kenneth was about to pay tribute to his wife. But Kenneth had other fish to fry. As he announced that he had managed to both inspire and impregnate one of his graduate students, he could barely keep the smile off his face. When he added that, as a man of honour, he had no alternative but to marry his child’s mother, I think he honestly expected we would burst into applause, but we weren’t that drunk. Stunned sober, people mumbled their goodbyes and left. Livia wandered off to another room. Kenneth disappeared out the front door, presumably in search of a more receptive audience. Alone with the carnage of the aborted party and none too sober myself, I decided to put the food away. Like many decisions that night, mine wasn’t wise.

  When I opened the kitchen door, I saw that Livia had taken refuge there. She was leaning against the counter, singing “Happy Birthday” and trying to light the candles on her store-bought birthday cake. She was very drunk. As she swayed towards the forest of candles, match after match flared, then burned out between her fingers. She hadn’t managed to ignite a single candle, but the blue icing roses on her cake were almost buried beneath a mulch of charred matches.

  “Let me help you with that,” I said.

  When she turned to face me, I saw that she was crying. Her gaze had the watery despair of a drowning woman. “It’s my party,” she said, then she lit a fresh match and returned to her Sisyphean task.

  I didn’t see Livia Brook again till the following September. Classes were over, and she spent spring and summer on the West Coast drifting through the misty regions of New Age thought. When the fall term began, Livia reappeared, tanned, thin, and carrying some sort of ritual bag adorned with bells and filled with gemstones guaranteed to heal the heart, ward off evil, and focus the mind. I had never been a proponent of enchanted bags, but Livia’s seemed to have power. For the first time since I had known her, she was sober, focused, and purposeful.

  During her marriage to Kenneth Brook, Livia’s life had centred on her husband. Beyond teaching her classes and picking up her paycheque, she had shown little interest in the day-to-day business of the university, but suddenly she was inviting colleagues for tea and soliciting their opinions about where our department was headed. Invariably, these tête-a-têtes moved from the abstract to the personal. As they poured out their career ambitions and disappointments, Livia’s colleagues were warmed by what Ed Mariani referred to as her “rampant empathy.” There was talk that when Ben Jesse’s tenure was over, a woman as perceptive as Livia would make a fine department head.

  When the Kevin Coyle case erupted, the rampant empathy that had caused Ed and me to raise our eyebrows saved our department. Ben Jesse asked Livia to meet regularly with the women who had accused Kevin until the charges against him were given a fair hearing. Ben’s confidence that open communication would contain the women’s anger proved ill-founded, but the women trusted Livia, and when Ben died we all knew that Livia was our best hope for achieving reconciliation. Every member of our department supported her proposal that we make a special effort to recruit female candidates to fill the two vacancies created by Ben’s death and an early retirement.

  Landing Solange, who was brilliant, had been a coup for our small university; however, Livia had been forced to argue Ariel’s case vigorously. Ariel’s paper credentials were acceptable rather than extraordinary, and she had interviewed poorly. The hiring committee found her warm and likeable, but equivocal about academic life. Livia, who had met Ariel the summer before at a women’s retreat on Saltspring Island, maintained that Ariel was simply suffering from post-dissertation ennui, and that by the time September rolled around she would be itching to get into a classroom. And Livia had a clincher. Unlike Solange, Ariel was a prairie girl who loved her birthplace. Our university wouldn’t be a stepping stone for her; it would, Livia assured us, be “forever.”

  Livia had been right about Ariel – at least in part. The students had loved her, and she had been a glowing presence in our department. That morning when I heard Livia’s voice I felt the debt of her gift, the weight of her loss.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “It’s about Ariel’s class,” she said. “There are still three weeks to go, and you’re the logical one to take over.”

  “Livia …”

  She cut me off. “I know you planned to do some writing this spring, but plans change. I’ve learned that.”

  “So have I,” I said. “Ian’s death taught me that nothing is certain. But Livia, I’m not getting any younger, and I haven’t exactly got a dazzling list of publications.”

  “You still have the summer,” Livia said quietly. “Ariel doesn’t. Jo, she was so committed to this class.”

  I could feel my pendulum being drawn into Liv
ia’s rhythm. “Okay,” I said. “As soon as we get back from the lake, I’ll come up to the university and grab a syllabus and a class list.”

  “Come this morning,” Livia said. “Then you’ll have the weekend to get prepared. Rosalie will have everything ready for you.”

  I did not accept the yoke gladly, but as I drove to the university, I knew I had no right to complain. As Livia had pointed out, I did have the summer; besides, Alex had called, and for a novice he gave great telephone.

  Ariel’s picture was still on the counter in the Political Science office. In front of it was a bud vase holding a single, perfect ivory rose. When I called hello, Rosalie looked up from her computer. She had done something new to her salt-and-pepper hair. For as long as I could remember, she had worn it tightly curled in the style my daughter Mieka called a Kurly Kate do. Now, the curl was relaxed into soft waves, and the colour was a uniform and becoming silver. “Nice look,” I said.

  Rosalie reached up eagerly to touch her freshly feathered bangs. “The bridal book says not to try a new style the day of the wedding, so I thought I’d practise.” Her voice was as tentative as that of a girl preparing for her first date.

  I tried not to smile. Until she met Detective Robert Hallam, Rosalie had approached life with the flexibility of a sergeant major. She knew exactly how life should be lived, and she was not forgiving of those of us who didn’t measure up. Love had come late to Rosalie. She was in her late fifties, and Robert was her first romance. When they met, he had been as intransigent and judgemental as she, and their mutual transformation had been a joy to watch.

  “If I were you, I’d stop practising,” I said. “You’re not going to improve on that look. Now, come on. Fill me in. How are the wedding plans coming along?”

  Her brow furrowed. “Pretty well, I think, except Robert’s been assigned to Ariel’s case, so he’s going to be putting in some long hours. He warned me last night that I’m going to have to be making some decisions for both of us.” She reached forward to save the work on her machine. “Joanne, did you go to the vigil for Ariel last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “I should have,” Rosalie said. “But I was still so upset, and I know it sounds selfish, but I want to enjoy this time before my wedding.”

  “That’s not selfish,” I said. “You were better off at home. The evening got pretty unpleasant towards the end.”

  “Robert had reports from some of the officers there. They said the situation was explosive.”

  “I didn’t notice any police,” I said.

  “They were female detectives, in plainclothes,” she said. Her voice lacked spirit. It was obvious her mind was somewhere else. She adjusted the diamond solitaire on her left hand. “Joanne, do you have a minute to talk?”

  “Of course.” I pulled up a chair, so we could talk face to face. “Is there something I can help with?”

  She laughed nervously. “It’s this business of being engaged to a policeman. I thought, since you and Inspector Kequahtooway are a couple, you might be able to help.”

  “If I can.”

  “I never know how much I should ask Robert about his work. I don’t want him to think I’m nosy; on the other hand, I do want him to know I’m interested.”

  “Maybe it’s best just to follow Robert’s lead. A lot of the time, police officers live in a grim world. If Alex is any indication, sometimes they need to talk about anything except the case; other times they seem to need to talk it through.”

  Rosalie looked thoughtful. “Last night, Robert must have needed to talk it through. I’ve never seen him so upset. Ariel’s case is really getting under his skin.”

  “I guess until they have a suspect …”

  “But they do have a suspect … at least they’ve brought someone in for intense questioning.”

  “Who is it?”

  “His name is Kyle Morrissey. He’s the young man who found Ariel’s body. His company sent him to work on some problem with the air conditioning in the sub-basement. He says he just took a wrong turn and ended up in the archive room.” She glanced around quickly to make sure we were alone. “Joanne, the police have had dealings with him before. Apparently, he has a violent temper.”

  “So, why is Robert uneasy?” I said.

  Rosalie’s face registered her distress. “He’s not certain they have the right man.”

  “Why?”

  “Instinct. Robert says that crimes like these typically involve rape. This one didn’t.”

  I could feel the pinprick stirrings of anxiety. “So there was no evidence of forced sex?”

  “None. She was just … slumped onto a table facing the front door. She was stabbed in the back. Robert said death was instantaneous.” Initially, Rosalie’s words had been halting; now they began to tumble out. “Robert said Ariel died from a single wound, surgically clean – doesn’t that sound terrible? And she didn’t struggle. There was nothing to indicate that Kyle Morrissey had tried to force himself on her. In fact, he called for help as soon as he found the body.”

  “How did he get in? I thought those rooms were always kept locked.”

  “They are – at least the doors the public uses are. But there’s a back door that workmen use. It opens up from the crawl space that has all the heating equipment and plumbing for the building.”

  I leaned towards her. “Rosalie, maybe you shouldn’t say anything about this to anyone else.”

  She looked stricken. “You mean I might compromise the case?”

  “I guess, until the case is solved, the fewer people who know about the details the better.”

  “I haven’t told anyone but you,” she said.

  “Good.” Her eyes still sought reassurance. I did my best. “Rosalie, it’s okay. When you told me, you knew it wouldn’t go any further.”

  “Because you’re in a relationship with a police officer, too.”

  “Right.”

  The cloud lifted. “It’s like a sisterhood, isn’t it?” she said.

  “That’s what it is,” I said, “a sisterhood, so if you want to talk about this to anyone, you can talk to me.”

  “What can she talk to you about?” Neither of us had heard Livia come into the office. Her hands clutched the poppy-painted silk scarf draped around her shoulders, and the shadows under her deep-set eyes were so dark she looked as if she’d been beaten. I remembered her hopes for Ariel and felt a pang in case I had made things hard for her on the phone.

  I turned to her. “We’re just ironing out the details about the class.”

  Rosalie rose with a start. “I’ve made up a file with copies of the syllabus and the class list. Ariel kept her grades on our shared drive on the computer, so I’ve printed them out for Joanne.”

  “Sounds like everything’s in order,” I said, standing.

  “Not quite.” Rosalie frowned. “I called the bookstore. Ariel was using Political Perspectives as her text in that class, but the bookstore is out of it, and by the time they can get it in, the class will be over.” She took a key from her desk drawer. “Joanne, would you mind going to Ariel’s office and getting her copy of the text? I should have done it, but I just couldn’t bring myself to open that door.”

  I took the key. “There’s no reason you should,” I said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I tried to be matter-of-fact, but the truth was I dreaded going to Ariel’s office. I’d been in it only a handful of times, but it was as characteristic of her as her thumbprint. She had surrounded herself with a cheerful clutter of books and journals, and a gallery of soft-sculpture figures of family and friends that she’d made from scraps of odd and lovely material. She was a person who loved process. A few weeks earlier, she’d called me in to show me how she’d placed a low table in front of her window and begun to grow a flat of tomato plants from seeds.

  The office had celebrated the many pleasures of her life, but when I turned the key in the lock, I walked into a room that was oddly impersonal. Ariel’s desk was
clear; the books on her bookshelves were neatly arranged according to subject and author, but the folk art and the photographs were gone. So were the table she’d placed under the window and the tomato plants that sprouted to life on it. I checked the section of books devoted to introductory politics: Political Perspectives was not there. I glanced through the other texts: Political Perspectives was still among the missing.

  I walked back to the main office. “Rosalie, did someone take away Ariel’s things?”

  “Not that I know of. Is something missing?”

  “Everything that was personal.”

  Rosalie followed me down the hall and peeked around the corner. Her face became troubled. “It wasn’t like this last Monday. I had to take some photocopying in, and it looked the way it always did. The police were in here last night, but I can’t imagine they’d remove anything.”

  “They wouldn’t,” I said. Then I closed the door, locked it, and handed Rosalie the key. “Maybe Livia will know something about it.”

  But when we got back to the main office, there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  I started for the stairs. Then, haunted by the absence of Ariel in that room that had once teemed with her life, I doubled back and rapped on a door that was seldom rapped on any more.

  It had been two years since I’d been in Kevin Coyle’s office. His frequent assaults on mine made reciprocal visits unnecessary, but a quick glance around the room assured me that all was as it had always been. His floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were jammed with thick books made from cheap paper. Their covers were dense with Cyrillic lettering and maps splattered in blood. The politics of Eastern Europe had a painful history of exsanguination. The brown overstuffed reading chair was still in its place by the window, and the illegal hotplate upon which Kevin made coffee and toasted sandwiches was still in plain view. But that day, as always, the most prominent feature of Kevin’s office was the four games of Risk he had set up on the dining-room table with the sawed-off legs that dominated the room.