12 Rose Street

by Gail Bowen

  “You’re on safe ground with Margot, Declan, and Lexi,” I said. “They don’t need to be flattered. They’re all very attractive.”

  As always we had over-ordered, but as always it didn’t matter. We were all keen on leftovers. When I opened the fridge to put away the remaining sushi and tempura, I saw a florist’s delivery package.

  Taylor was standing behind me. “That came when I was ordering the food. I put the flowers in the fridge and forgot all about them. I’m sure they’re still okay.”

  The flowers were from Gale’s Florist. When I tore away the wrappings and saw the gerberas, the image of Bev, triumphantly alive, flashed through my mind. Bev said once that she loved gerberas because they seemed to have a lust for life. Liz could not have chosen a more graceful way to apologize for missing our meeting, and I was smiling as I opened the notecard that came with the flowers.

  There was no signature, but Liz’s expensive buff-coloured stationery was embossed with her monogram. The handwriting was shaky, but the three-word message was clear: Don’t Trust Anybody.

  Taylor was watching my face as I read the card. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Taylor, would you mind putting these in water while I call and thank the friend who sent them.”

  When I called the Meighen home, a woman answered. When I asked for Liz, she said, “Mrs. Meighen is gone for holiday. This is the housekeeper.”

  “Could I speak to Mr. Meighen?”

  “Call back, please. Maybe leave message,” she said, then broke the connection.

  I tried again. This time the phone rang six times and Liz’s recorded voice asked me to leave a message. I left my name and cell number and asked that either she or Graham call me.

  When I went back into the kitchen, Zack was watching Taylor decide precisely where each gerbera should be placed in the drabware vase. He wheeled close to me. “Taylor said you were calling the friend who sent the flowers. I’m taking a wild guess and assuming it was Liz Meighen explaining why she was a no-show this morning.”

  “Close but no cigar,” I said. I handed him the note that had come with the flowers. He read it, frowned, glanced at Taylor, and said nothing. I got the message. We weren’t going to discuss the situation in front of our daughter. And so we waited. Taylor had an artist’s eye, and it took a while before she was satisfied with her flower arrangement, but finally she stood back, cocked her head, and gazed critically at the gerberas. “What do you think?” she said.

  “Perfect,” Zack said.

  “I agree,” I said. “Not a bloom out of place.”

  “Good,” Taylor said. “Now I can still squeeze in a couple of hours in my studio before bed.” She blew kisses our way and headed out.

  As soon as the door closed, Zack turned to me. “What’s going on with Liz?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said. “I don’t buy the housekeeper’s explanation that Liz is on holiday. Less than twelve hours ago, Liz was a no-show at a meeting she had been desperate to arrange. She’s old school when it comes to etiquette, and she orders flowers to apologize for inconveniencing me. So far, so good, but then Liz goes to the florist to drop off a handwritten note warning me that I can’t trust anybody and takes off on a vacation. It doesn’t wash, Zack.”

  “I agree,” Zack said. “It doesn’t make sense, but Liz admits she hasn’t been thinking clearly.”

  “It’s possible that she asked someone else to take the note to Gale’s,” I said. “But given Liz’s state of mind, I can’t imagine she’d trust anybody else to do the job.” I checked my watch. “Gale’s will be closed by now,” I said. “But after church, I’m going to drop by the shop and ask some questions.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  When I awoke Sunday morning, I piled my pillows against the headboard, took the sculpture of Ernest Lindner from my night table, and placed it on my lap. Looking at Ernie’s face, I remembered the conversations we’d had – about art, his youth in Vienna, the summer home at Emma Lake where he did some of his best work, and always the eternal and unanswerable question of what made men and women happy. They were good memories – almost good enough to blot out the ugliness of Ian and Jill’s betrayal. It would take a lot of time to redress the balance – to overcome the pain and remember the many joys of my life during the period when Ian was my husband. But I had spent the night in bed beside the man I loved and who loved me. As I ran my fingers over the surface of the ceramic Zack had given me for my birthday, I felt my strength returning.

  Zack stroked my arm. “You’re really pleased with that, aren’t you?”

  “I love it,” I said. “And I love you. Zack, I’m going to do whatever it takes to get us through this.”

  “How about pancakes for breakfast?”

  “That would be a start,” I said.

  When I got back from our very gentle run, the pancake batter was made; the griddle was hot, and Cronus’s Inferno Red urn was on the sideboard. “Is Cronus joining us for breakfast?” I said.

  Zack wheeled up beside me. “I was thinking more about dinner,” he said. “Is tonight a good night for us to go to the Sahara Club?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I’m ready for red meat, and Taylor’s always up for a steak. Angus wanted to come. I’ll check with him. If he’s available, I’ll make a reservation.”

  Taylor was crucifer that day at the Cathedral, so we had to be at church early. While Taylor got robed, Zack and I had twenty minutes to wait before the service began. We both welcomed the chance to be together in a space where many turbulent hearts had found peace.

  Then the church began to fill; Mieka and our granddaughters joined us and the organist struck the chord of the processional hymn.

  Mieka was pale and her eyes were deeply shadowed, but her chin was high and her shoulders were squared. As they always did when they weren’t serving, Madeleine and Lena took paper and markers out of their backpack and made drawings of girls with fancy hair. It was a Sunday service like every other Sunday service, and yet everything had changed. During the Lord’s prayer, Mieka and I both stumbled over the line “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

  When the service was over, the girls spotted friends and went to join them and Zack zeroed in on the dean. Mieka and I stayed in our pew and waited for Taylor. “It was good to have you beside me today,” I said.

  “Same here,” Mieka said. “I notice we both had a problem with the line about forgiving those who trespass against us.”

  “We’ll get there,” I said.

  “It’s going to be a while for me,” Mieka said. “Maybe I’ll never get there. Last night after the kids went to bed, I boxed up all the pictures of Ian I’d put up around the house and the photo albums I was always showing the girls and took them to the garage. Jill’s stuff was still in the guest room, so after I’d finished with the photos of Ian, I packed up her things. I felt sick even touching her clothes. When I was through I called Pete and Angus to come over for a beer.”

  “You’re brothers are stoic with me,” I said. “How are they really doing?”

  “Angus is okay. He was young when Ian died and as we all know, Ian didn’t spend much time with us. Peter’s very angry. Neither of them wanted to hear the clips.”

  “Well, that’s a blessing,” I said. “What are you going to do with them?”

  “I packed them with Jill’s things.”

  “That was wise. There’s no use dwelling on the past. We all have a lot to look forward to.”

  “I’m trying,” Mieka said. “I’m taking the girls to the Science Centre this afternoon. I sent Jill a text telling her that her suitcases are in the hall and asking her to get them out of our house while we’re gone. I told her to leave the key I gave her on the kitchen table.”

  “One step at a time,” I said.

  Mieka gave me a tired smile. “Right,” she said. “One step at a time.”

  On the way home from church
, we drove to Gale’s Florist on 13th Avenue. Alison, the owner’s daughter, was at the counter misting a bouquet of peach roses, warm as a glowing sunset.

  “Those are exquisite,” I said.

  Alison raised a nicely arched eyebrow. “If the orders I’ve been sending to your address are any indication, I doubt if you’re in the market for flowers.”

  “You’re right about that,” I said. “Alison, I came to ask about the gerberas that were delivered to our house yesterday.”

  “Is there a problem with them?”

  “No, they’re lovely. I just wondered about the card Liz Meighen sent. Did she bring the card into the store herself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she seem all right?”

  Alison stopped misting the roses. “Joanne, you and my mother have been friends for years. You know she’s big on protecting our customers’ privacy.”

  “I know, and I appreciate it. But Liz Meighen is also a friend and I’m concerned about her. She called yesterday morning and said she had to see me. We agreed on a time, but she never showed up. The message she sent with the flowers was unsettling enough to bring me here today. Do you know who Liz dealt with when she brought in the note?”

  “It was me,” Alison said. “And I’ve been worrying about her ever since. She wasn’t herself. Mrs. Meighen has known me since I was ten years old, but she couldn’t remember my name. She was confused and she seemed to have trouble focusing. When she left, I walked her to the door to make certain she wasn’t driving.”

  “And she wasn’t?”

  “No, she had a cab waiting.”

  “Did she say anything about going on a trip?”

  For the first time since I’d begun asking about Liz, Alison relaxed. “Oh, you know about the trip. I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody.”

  “But she did say she was leaving town?”

  “Yes. When her daughter was ill, Mrs. Meighen came in here often. She liked to choose flowers that would lift Beverly’s spirits. I hadn’t seen her for ages, so yesterday I told her how good it was to see her in the shop again. She said she probably wouldn’t be back for a while because she was going away. I asked where she was going, and she put her finger to her lips.”

  “So you don’t know where she went.”

  “No. I just hope that wherever she is, she’ll find what she needs.”

  Zack had functions or meetings all afternoon. It would be a long day for him, so the reservation I made at the Sahara Club was an early one. Taylor and Angus were both free for the evening, so in addition to Cronus there were four of us at dinner. Cronus’s choice of the Sahara Club for his big night out was in character. The restaurant’s website said it all. “The best steaks, big wines, all the while you are surrounded by a surplus of polished oak and red velour booths.” The all-male wait staff was discrete, and the patrons had the self-satisfied auras of the successful. Cronus would have pronounced the Sahara Club “a classy joint.”

  Zack had brought the Inferno Red urn along in a roomy leather messenger bag, and after he’d ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon, he took the urn out and set it on the table. When the waiter brought our champagne, we drank a toast to Cronus and turned our attention to our menus. “Sky’s the limit,” Zack said. “This is Cronus’s party.” We ordered appetizers, then, because the Sahara was a steak house, we all scrutinized the beef options.

  “That thirty-two-ounce Kobe Tomahawk looks interesting,” Zack said.

  “I wonder if the Sahara Club has a defibrillator on site?” I said. “I was thinking you and I might share the Chateaubriand for two.”

  “Sold,” Zack said. “But only because, as you have pointed out once or twice, I’m a sharing kind of guy.”

  “I’m not,” Angus said. “I’m twenty-two years old and it’ll probably be a while before I get another chance to eat a steak that costs $159.95.”

  “Cronus would be proud,” Zack said. “How about you, Taylor?”

  “I’m going to have the filet mignon.”

  Zack motioned the server to come over and we ordered. “I have news,” Taylor said. “I talked to Cole Dimitroff this afternoon. Darrell thought it would be a good idea if I talked to Cole directly.”

  “And?” I said.

  “And I really like how he plans to use my paintings in Corydon’s advertising. Since he bought BlueBoy21 from Dr. Treadgold, Cole’s had the painting at his apartment. The plan now is to hang BlueBoy21 and Endangered in the head office, but all the Corydon stores will have copies of the paintings and details from the paintings will be used in their print advertising.”

  “So what does Corydon sell?” Angus asked.

  “Very expensive clothing for men,” Zack said. “They cater to a gay clientele, hence the name Corydon.”

  “Because … ?” Angus said.

  “Because Andre Gide wrote a book about homosexuality titled Corydon,” I said.

  “Cool,” Angus said. “So, Zack, did you get a good deal for the right to use Taylor’s work?”

  Taylor gave her brother a look that would have curdled milk. “Angus, I was the one who worked out the agreement with Cole, and I got very good terms. Thanks for asking.”

  “Sorry,” Angus said. “I’m a dweeb, but even dweebs have their uses. I was the one who discovered that the house Mum and Zack inherited at 12 Rose Street is not for sale at any price.”

  Taylor’s eyes widened. “It must be really special.”

  “It’s not,” I said. “It’s well kept, but it’s still slum housing.”

  “Slum housing with a strange history,” Angus said. “I went through the file. Before Cronus purchased the property, it was a party house.”

  “What’s a party house?” Taylor said.

  “It’s a place where people go to get drunk or shoot up or have sex or all three,” Angus said. “There were pictures in the file. Mattresses on the floor. Stuffing coming out of chairs. Broken glass. Blood stains everywhere. Black mould. To his credit, Cronus cleaned it up. He still has a cleaning service in there every two weeks.”

  Zack was dubious. “Are you sure about that? Not many slum houses have a cleaning service.”

  Angus winced. “I could be wrong. I really just skimmed through the file. I’ll give it a serious look tonight.”

  “Bring the files to the house Tuesday,” I said as the appetizers arrived. “That house intrigues me, so does the woman who lives there.”

  Zack speared a piece of smoked salmon. “Shall we declare a moratorium on talking about our slum empire while we’re eating?”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Thanksgiving is two weeks away. We’re going to the lake from Thursday night till Monday afternoon, so all suggestions about food and fun are welcome.”

  The food was excellent and Taylor’s news and the prospect of Thanksgiving had buoyed our spirits. Zack watched in amazement as our younger son ate the last morsel of his thirty-two-ounce steak. We had a final toast to Cronus, then Zack placed the red urn back in his messenger bag, and, full and happy, we made our way to the entrance. Angus and Taylor went ahead to get the car while Zack settled the bill.

  As Zack and I waited for the credit card machine to complete the transaction, I looked back into the restaurant. The arrangement of the red velour booths gave diners privacy, and the booth in which Graham Meighen and Jill Oziowy were seated hadn’t been visible from where we had been sitting. But I could see the booth and its occupants clearly from the entrance. Jill was wearing a silky low-cut black top that revealed her cleavage. As I watched, she laughed, leaned forward seductively, and touched her index finger to Graham’s lips.

  I tapped Zack’s arm. “Check out the booth near the window on the right side of the dining room.”

  Zack turned his chair. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “That didn’t take long. I guess Jill is now officially in the Ridgeway camp.”

  I glanced at Jill. She and Graham were now holding hands. “How is this going to end?” I said.

  Zack slipped his credit ca
rd back into his wallet and sighed. “Not well,” he said. “Let’s just hope the collateral damage is minimal.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  I didn’t go to Saskatoon with Zack for Quinlan Live. I needed to check our poll numbers and identify areas that we might win if we redeployed volunteers, so after Zack and Milo left for the airport, I went straight to the Noodle House. As always, I took whatever chair was vacant, cleared a space on the table in front of me, and opened my laptop. Before I settled in with my polls and volunteer lists, I googled Graham Meighen. The portrait accompanying his executive profile was the usual head-and-shoulders shot of the flourishing businessman. He was sixty-four and there were few surprises in his biography. He was born in Storthoaks, Saskatchewan, a town that now had a population of fewer than one hundred. He had a degree in business from the University of Saskatchewan. He ran his father-in-law’s construction company for years before becoming CEO of Lancaster Development. He served on a number of boards. Seemingly, he was a successful man and a wealthy one.

  I was still staring at Graham Meighen’s portrait when I realized the second hour of Quinlan Live was about to start. The Noodle House had a radio left behind from the days when the Noodle House was a noodle house. I turned it on and leaned back. Quinlan announced that the topic for the day was “Do attack ads work?” He introduced Zack, and then, before the lines were opened to callers, Zack and Quinlan had a lawyerly conversation about the rights of the accused to legal counsel. As Milo had predicted, the topic was dry despite Zack and Quinlan’s spirited exchange, and callers soon pushed the dialogue into more fertile ground. It didn’t take long for arguments about the effectiveness of attack ads to disintegrate into a simple exchange of attacks.