12 Rose Street

by Gail Bowen

  “That would be fun,” she said. “We’ll talk about what I can bring when you get here.”

  There aren’t many peaceful times at UpSlideDown, but mid-morning is as close to serenity as the play centre gets. That morning the usual contingent of mums, many of them pregnant, were sipping herbal tea and chatting while their children played in the quiet space.

  When Mieka spotted me, she came over. “All is calm. All is bright,” she said. “Let’s seize the moment.”

  We sat at our usual table, close to the kitchen, where Mieka could keep an eye on the action. I noticed there were two young women whom I hadn’t seen before helping out.

  “Who are the new assistants?” I said.

  “Kerry Benjoe’s sisters. Kerry suggested we start them out here – let them pick up on the vibe, then see if they’re interested in co-managing April’s Place. Most of the clientele is Aboriginal and it’s important for everybody to know that Aboriginal people are in charge.”

  I rubbed her arm. “Good call,” I said.

  Mieka smiled. “Good genes – yours and Dad’s.” She chewed her lip – always a sign of tension with her. “Dad would have been fifty-seven tomorrow.”

  “Is that why you had the photo albums out at your house?”

  Mieka took a paper napkin from the dispenser and rubbed at a spot on the table. “Dad was so young when he died, and he missed so much. I try to make him part of our significant days.”

  “Like the girls’ first day of school.”

  Mieka smiled. “You always made sure the boys and I knew the first day of school was significant.”

  “The only day of the year except your birthdays when you guys got to eat junk cereal,” I said. “Mieka, I’m very glad that you’re making sure the girls know that Ian is a part of their history.”

  “Part of their history, but not part of their lives,” Mieka said. “As far as Madeleine and Lena are concerned, Zack is their grandfather.”

  “He’s the only grandfather they’ve ever known,” I said. “Zack loves the girls, and they love him. How can that be wrong?”

  “It isn’t wrong,” Mieka said. “But it isn’t right either. It’s tough for any man to compete with Zack, let alone a man the girls will never know.”

  I could hear the sadness in her voice. “Mieka, we’re not on opposite sides on this,” I said.

  “I know. It’s just that sometimes, it seems as if I’m the only one who remembers Dad. Angus thinks Zack walks on water. Pete knows he couldn’t keep his clinic open if Zack didn’t cover a lot of the bills. And you …” She threw up her hands in exasperation.

  “What about me?” I said.

  “It’s pretty clear that you love Zack more than you ever loved Dad. Don’t forget I grew up in that house. I remember the two of you quarrelling.” She raised her hand in a halt sign. “I know it didn’t happen often, but I can still hear the sound of the front door slamming when Dad went off to the legislature.”

  “I wanted him to spend more time with us.”

  “I’ve read everything that was written about his time in government,” Mieka said. “During the years that he was deputy-premier and Attorney General, he changed the province. He was doing important work.”

  “So was I,” I said. “I was raising you and your brothers.” I picked up my mug and carried it into the kitchen, and then went back to the staff bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and breathed deeply until I felt calm enough to face my daughter. I didn’t want us to part in anger.

  When I came out of the kitchen, Mieka wasn’t alone. There had been many surreal moments in the last few days, but this one was right up there. Mieka was still sitting at the table, but Slater Doyle had taken my place. A tiny blond girl was sitting on Mieka’s lap.

  As soon as he spotted me, Slater stood so abruptly that he nearly knocked over his chair. For a moment I thought he was going to bolt, but he regained his composure. “Hello again,” he said.

  “Twice in one day,” I said. “It must be kismet.”

  Mieka’s eyes travelled from Slater to me. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other,” she said. When neither of us said anything, Mieka turned to the little girl in her arms. “This is Bridie Doyle, Mum. Bridie, this is my mother, Ms. Shreve.”

  I held out my hand to her. “I’m very glad to meet you, Bridie,” I said.

  Bridie was perhaps four years old, a fairy-tale child, very delicate with white blond curly hair and a sweet smile. Her hand was almost weightless. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “You’re welcome,” I said. I looked at Slater. “Your daughter?”

  “My pride and joy,” Slater said.

  “I can understand why,” I said. “Slater, I’m glad I ran into you again. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Not in front of Bridie.” Slater’s hostility was evident and Mieka frowned.

  “This is just campaign business. Zack’s doing Jack Quinlan’s radio show tomorrow, and I know the mayor is scheduled to be on it next week. Would you agree not to stack the deck with supporters?”

  Slater raised an eyebrow. “Just real callers with real questions?”

  “That’s the idea. You and I both need to get a clear picture of where we stand.”

  I could see Slater weighing my proposition. “We go last,” he said finally. “How do I know you won’t cheat?”

  “You don’t,” I said. “You’ll have to trust me.” I zipped my jacket. “I’m taking off now, Mieka. Let me know what you decide, Slater.”

  When Bridie slid off Mieka’s knee and headed for the play area, Mieka came over and gave me a quick hug. “I’ll bring a roasted vegetable salad tomorrow night. It’ll be good with the brisket.” She turned to Slater. “There’s fresh coffee,” she said. “And you’re in luck. The morning glory muffins are just about to come out of the oven.”

  Cooking always calms me, and after I put the briskets in marinade, I made a chicken casserole that Taylor was fond of, had a hot shower, rubbed myself with lavender lotion, and took a long nap. I awoke feeling ready to tackle what lay ahead.

  What lay ahead was Milo O’Brien. When he called from downstairs, I braced myself and buzzed him in. As always, Milo was wearing khakis, a black T-shirt, and a Blue Jays cap. He had his phone in one hand and a half-eaten Crispy Crunch bar in the other. “Good news,” he said. “People are tweeting about the big man’s press conference and the tweets are overwhelmingly positive. They like that he got out in front of the situation. They like the answer he gave to the old Bible-thumper, and they like that he’s not just talking about getting the houses fixed, he’s actually getting workers on the job.”

  Milo pulled up a stool to the kitchen table and began drumming his fingers. He had a wild, kinetic energy that kept him constantly in motion and drove Zack crazy. “Quinlan’s producer called,” he said. “The slumlord story is trending, so they’re going to give Zack the entire second hour of the show. One small complication. Quinlan thinks the dynamic will be better if Zack’s across the desk in the studio with him.”

  “So we fly to Saskatoon,” I said.

  Milo’s startlingly bright blue eyes were amused. “That’s right. You’re a white knuckler, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll be all right,” I said.

  “Good.” Milo finished his chocolate bar and rolled the wrapper into a ball. “The Leader-Post is doing polling on the civic election today and tomorrow. We should have numbers by Friday. But even without the numbers my spidey sense tells me we’re moving in the right direction. Zack’s a charismatic guy.”

  “Milo, what do you know about Slater Doyle?”

  “He’s the enemy. Apart from that – nothing much. Slater knows what he’s doing. He’s smart – smart enough to know that his candidate may be in trouble. My guess is that Ridgeway’s people are very concerned about those poll numbers.”

  “What do you think they’ll do if we come out ahead?”

  Milo shrugged. “Retaliate.” He slid off t
he stool and headed for the door. “The plane for Saskatoon leaves at 6:55 tomorrow morning. You can get the tickets online.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  He shook his head. “No need, if you’re going. There’s stuff I can do here.”

  “Well, thanks for stopping by,” I said.

  “No problem,” Milo said. He reached into the pocket of his khakis, pulled out a Crispy Crunch, and tossed it to me. “For the flight,” he said.

  Zack called just after Milo left. “How was lunch at the Scarth Club?” I said.

  “Long, liquid, and pleasant,” Zack said. “I must have been there a hundred times, but that place still knocks me out. I love the portraits of those pompous old farts who were the club’s first presidents, and I love that motto they had carved about themselves over the salon mantlepiece: “They Builded Better Than They Knew.”

  “There’s something to be said for tradition,” I agreed.

  “Boy, is there ever,” Zack said. “Warren is the fourth generation of his family to belong to the club, and he says the recipe the bartender uses to make the Old Fashioneds we had today is the same recipe that was used to make the Old Fashioneds his great-grandfather favoured, fruit salad in an Old Fashioned glass filled with ice, bourbon, and a dash of bitters.”

  “Sounds as if you had a couple,” I said.

  “I’m high on life,” Zack said airily.

  “Where’s your car?” I said.

  “In my parking space at Falconer Shreve,” Zack said. “Warren’s driver took us wherever we needed to go.”

  I laughed. “So where did you need to go?”

  “Many places,” Zack said.

  “Do you want me to pick you up?”

  “Warren and I are still making the rounds,” Zack said. “The driver will deliver me to you.”

  “Where’s Annie?”

  “At the gym working on her abs.” Suddenly, Zack was all business. “Jo, this long, liquid lunch of mine has been highly instructive. You asked me ask to see what Warren knew about the people behind Ridgeway.”

  “And …”

  “And some of Ridgeway’s major contributors are starting to ask questions about why the mayor hasn’t appeared in public since he freaked at the Racette-Hunter opening, Warren’s buddies may be old, but they can still smell trouble, and they’re hanging on to their money.”

  “Milo implied Ridgeway’s numbers are soft,” I said. “The possibility of losing an election always dries up some funding sources.”

  “But Ridgeway’s still ahead,” Zack said. “I don’t get it.”

  “Neither do I,” I said. “It’s seven weeks till the election. In politics, that’s an eternity. People like Warren’s friends and companies like Lancaster Development have been buying politicians for years. They’re too experienced to panic because their candidate’s vote is wobbly.”

  “Well, for some reason they are panicking,” Zack said, “and this afternoon Warren did what he could to speed their exit. He took me around, introduced me to people who I’d assumed would be supporting Ridgeway, said the Ridgeway campaign might be headed for trouble and they should either support me or wait this one out.”

  “And Warren didn’t elaborate on what the potential trouble was.”

  “No, and I didn’t push it. Warren did tell me that in the past few days Graham Meighen has been hitting up Ridgeway’s supporters hard for cash donations.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. That campaign is well financed, and since he was disbarred, Slater’s been a model steward of other people’s money. Since Ridgeway was first elected, Slater has never spent a dime more than he had to on an election. There’s no reason for Graham Meighen to be going around town cap in hand.”

  “Maybe not, but Warren told me that on Wednesday, Graham Meighen approached him personally asking for a donation.”

  “And … ?”

  Zack chortled. “Warren told Meighen to go to hell, that he was supporting me.”

  “And we missed the moment,” I said. “Let’s at least celebrate it. I haven’t had an Old Fashioned in twenty-five years. Why don’t you pick up a jar of maraschino cherries on your way home and we’ll go crazy.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  Jill Oziowy called just as I was putting the casserole in the oven for dinner. As always her voice was vibrant. Jill set her own course, and she had a gift for taking people where she wanted them to go. “I watched the podcast of Zack’s news conference this morning,” she said. “It piqued my curiosity, so I pulled up our coverage of the Cronus murder. Gruesome stuff going on out there in the Queen City.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I said.

  “Fill me in.”

  I gave Jill the condensed version of all that had happened from the time Cronus warned us that a child would be abducted from the R-H opening. When I finished, she said, “Sounds like a story to me.”

  “A story that continues to unfold,” I agreed. “I hate loose ends, and there are many, many loose ends here. The problem is I don’t have time to follow them up. Scott Ridgeway, our current mayor, is a lightweight. Everyone knows he’s a puppet for the developers, but he’s affable; he’s enthusiastic about all the ceremonial stuff mayors have to do, and until the Racette-Hunter opening, he’d never met a camera or a microphone he didn’t like. He was scheduled to speak that night and he froze. His campaign manager had to literally push him onstage, and when Ridgeway just stared at the audience, his campaign manager had to haul him off. The mayor has been AWOL ever since.”

  “No candidate disappears for two full days during a tight campaign,” Jill said.

  “No, and Zack just learned that Ridgeway’s cash cows are getting skittish. The Leader-Post is doing some polling today and tomorrow, and Milo O’Brien, our political gun for hire, thinks we may be pulling ahead.”

  “You don’t sound exactly jubilant,” Jill said.

  “I’m not,” I said. “I’m worried.”

  “Come on, Jo, you’ve been doing politics for a long time. You’re too smart to get sucker-punched.”

  “In an ordinary election, yes. But from the time Cronus warned us that a child would be abducted, this has not been an ordinary election. Jill, I think there’s a connection between Ridgeway’s campaign and Cronus’s murder.”

  “You think they had him killed?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that Cronus had me take a buddy photo of him with Zack and Brock Poitras, the candidate for city council in our ward. Cronus sent out the photo with a cryptic message – all numbers, seemingly random. Within twelve hours he was dead.”

  “I’m coming out there,” Jill said,

  “Are you serious?”

  “You bet I’m serious. It’s been a long time since I’ve done real journalism. This smells like a red meat story, and I want to be the one doing the reporting.”

  “This may get ugly.”

  “It couldn’t be any uglier than what’s going on here.”

  “Trouble in the halls of NationTV?”

  “Just our biennial bloodletting.”

  “And you’re caught in the middle?”

  “I’m the target. Yet another young turk has been brought in to save the network. He wants NationTV to pull back on hard news and focus on ‘lifestyle programming’ so we can capture the eighteen to forty-nine demographic. Same old, same old – shorter segments, less analysis, more focus on self-help, home improvement, and fun. He’s getting a lot of support from the brown-nosers upstairs. I seem to be the only one standing in his way.”

  “Hey, déjà-vu all over again,” I said. “Remember the water-skiing squirrel?”

  Jill chuckled. “God, I’d almost forgotten. Same situation. Different young turk. If that squirrel was still alive NationTV would give him his own show – prime time.

  “You won that battle, and you’ll win this one.”

  “I’m not optimistic,” Jill said. “But I’m not going to oblige the network by falling on my sword. I’v
e been a journalist for over twenty-five years. I want to leave a legacy. If this Ridgeway story is half as hot as I think it is, I’ll be able to force NationTV to admit that investigative journalism has a place in network television.”

  “That’s the Jill I know and love,” I said. “And I have an idea about where you can start. You have the video of Zack’s press conference. Hang on to everything that was filmed but didn’t make it to air. When Zack talked about ensuring that the foundations of the Rose Street houses were firm, he was responding to a question from an old woman quoting the Bible. As soon as Zack started in, Ridgeway’s campaign manager, Slater Doyle, jumped for his cell. I’d pay good money to know who he called.”

  “Save your money,” Jill said. “I’m still on salary at NationTV, and that means I’m free to ask questions, follow leads, and keep on digging until we hit pay dirt.”

  “All of a sudden I can’t stop smiling,” I said. “Jill, I can’t tell you what it will mean to me to have you here. Lately I’ve been feeling like Sisyphus, rolling my boulder up the hill and just standing by as it rolls back down again.”

  “From now on there’ll be two of us to push the boulder,” Jill said. “It’ll be like old times. I’ll call you as soon as I know what time I’ll be arriving in Regina.”

  “Try to book a flight that will get you here in time for dinner tomorrow,” I said. “Howard Dowhanuik and the kids are coming for brisket. Zack loves a full table.”

  “And tomorrow is Ian’s birthday,” Jill said. The ache in her voice was unmistakable. “Jo, I miss you all so much.”

  “We miss you too,” I said. “But tomorrow we’ll be together. And on Ian’s birthday. He would have gotten a kick out of that.”

  The second-hour slot on Quinlan Live was good placement for Zack. Although the studio was in Saskatoon, the show was broadcast provincewide between 8:30 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. and rebroadcast at night. By the end of the day, much of the province had heard Jack Quinlan’s voice: badgering, teasing, empathizing, pontificating, enthusing, consoling.

  Quinlan’s politics were as far to the right of mine as it was possible to be, but I liked him. Over the years, I’d been on Quinlan Live dozens of times as an academic whose views on the politics of foreign takeovers, culture, race, poverty, and a host of other issues lit up the phone lines. Jack was often outrageous, but he was always fair, and I knew he’d give Zack a chance to talk freely.