Denial

by Beverley McLachlin

  “One difference,” I say. “I’m not telling her that unless she accepts the plea I’m gone.”

  I try to read his face but it’s a mix of emotions. He’s upset that I haven’t strong-armed his wife into a guilty plea—still the best outcome in his mind—but grateful that I’m still on the case.

  The waiter, a blond youth wearing a black T-shirt with sleeves short enough to reveal impressive muscles beneath his tattooed skin, appears, and we take time out to order.

  “I recommend the wild coho on garlic-braised arugula,” Joseph murmurs.

  “Sure,” I say, slapping my menu shut.

  He orders the same and the waiter leaves. Joseph makes small talk—a juicy piece of gossip about a lawyer in trouble for sleeping with his client—while we wait for our plates. Within minutes the waiter returns with sizzling platters of deep-orange salmon.

  “Fresh from the ocean,” says Joseph. “We are blessed in this city.”

  I think of my clients who line up twice a week at the foodbank. “Indeed,” I say. “Some of us are.”

  Joseph tastes a morsel, nods approvingly, and at last gets to the business at hand.

  “I am most grateful that you are sticking with Vera to the bitter end. For that is assuredly what the end will be—bitter.” He treats me to a self-effacing smile. “As I mentioned in the car the other day, I like to be kept informed. I woke up this morning and spied an unexpected blank space in my calendar. Gave you a call on the chance you might be free.”

  I give him a long look, wait for his eyes to shift away. He’s overstepped and he knows it. He’s not my client, and the rules are clear—I report to Vera, not her husband.

  “I recognize that Vera is technically your client,” he says, clawing his way back to the high ground. “It’s just that I care. And you never know; I may be able to help.”

  I consider. Vera probably assumes I’ll talk to him, and besides, I may learn something. My gut tells me that the Quentin family dynamic is the black hole at the center of this case.

  “I can’t tell you much,” I say. “We’ve been piecing together the last two days of Olivia’s life to see if we can find anything that could point us to who else might have killed her.”

  “We know who killed her,” he says.

  I put my fork down, shocked at the bald assertion. He raises his hand to forestall me.

  “Correction. Of course, we don’t know who killed Olivia, except that it wasn’t Vera. It’s just that sometimes, looking at the case they’re arraying against us, I start believing it’s true.” He gives me a bleak look. “And then I shake myself and know it isn’t. True, that is.”

  Joseph Quentin—the person closest in the world to Vera—has just told me he believes she killed her mother, and his attempt to backtrack doesn’t add up.

  I clear my throat. “I’m dismayed that you think, even in your moments of doubt, that Vera could have done what the Crown alleges. But it doesn’t matter. What you think—or I think, for that matter—doesn’t matter a damn. All that matters is that we convince the jury there’s a reasonable doubt.”

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps you can help.” I spear a leaf of arugula. “You stopped by to see her the morning of Olivia’s death.”

  If he’s surprised I know this, he doesn’t let on. “Routine,” he says. “I was in the neighborhood and decided to pop over to see how she was doing. I did that quite frequently. I acted as sort of a caretaker—made sure the furnace was working, the lawn was mowed, and Maria was paid.”

  I survey him sceptically. Joseph’s routines, as I imagine them, do not involve him driving through suburbia before lunch. “Maria suggested you discussed some business with Olivia.”

  He straightens defensively. “Maria’s mistaken, unless she meant the business of finding Olivia’s copy of her will. When I got there, I found Olivia sitting in her room in something of a state. Going on about her will. Couldn’t find it. I dug it out of the drawer and produced it for her.”

  “Maria says she heard Olivia’s voice coming through the door, like she was upset.”

  “It’s possible. Not being able to find her will ruffled her. She was worried about her forgetfulness. I told her it was likely the pain or her medication. Just a bout of confusion.”

  It fits, I think. Maria opening the door, finding Joseph standing with the will in his hand, Olivia in her chair distraught.

  “Did Olivia tell you why she wanted to see her will?”

  “No. Who knows what was going on in her mind? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. She never changed the will, as we all know. But the real point is, no one would have killed her over it. That I can assure you.”

  I remember the elusive lawyer who visited but keep that information to myself. “With all due respect, Olivia left behind a lot of money,” I say instead. “Your son, Nicholas, visited Olivia the day before she died. Do you know anything about that visit?”

  He visibly bridles. “No, nothing. My son is independent, comes and goes as he pleases.”

  “You and your son got along?”

  “Yes, Ms. Truitt, like all families there were occasional tensions. But we get along, though frankly, that has nothing to do with the case.” He leans toward me over the table. “Jilly, I am happy to pay for whatever wild geese you want to chase and to let you decide how to conduct this case. But allow me to respectfully suggest that this examination of Olivia’s last days will lead you nowhere. The police have been all through it umpteen times. So have the lawyers who preceded you. Sadly, there are no clues to be uncovered.”

  I sit back. “I may seem a bit obsessive, Joseph. But there is only one way I know how to handle a case. My client may go down—from time to time it happens—but it will not be for want of effort on my part.”

  “Very well,” he says tightly. “But I want you to understand one thing. I would like, if at all possible, to salvage my family—what is left of it—when this is over.”

  “I understand,” I say, not understanding at all. What might I find that would damage his family even more than Olivia’s murder and Vera’s trial already has?

  He decides not to explain. Twirling the stem of his glass between forefinger and thumb, he changes the subject. “Any word from our mutual friend?”

  “Vincent?” I shake my head. “No.”

  “Ah, well, you were probably right when you said he’s alive and well in some tropical clime. We’ll hear from him one of these days.”

  I shrug. “I moved on long ago.”

  The waiter reappears, surveys the food on our plates. “Everything okay?”

  “Excellent,” says Joseph Quentin, “but I think we’re done.”

  “Happens sometimes,” says the waiter, sparing me a sympathetic look as he picks up my plate. Waiters see lots of sad stuff. A break-up, he’s probably thinking. Distinguished gentleman of a certain age, woman still young but pushing middle age, he’s fallen for someone younger, fresher.

  I think of my bag of groceries stashed in the cloakroom, not getting any fresher either. I remember the exhibition of Indigenous art that I planned to visit before heading back to my condo.

  “Lunch was lovely, Joseph,” I say as I rise, “but I need to go.”

  The clouds have blown in while we sat inside. Unexpected raindrops spit at us as we walk out of the restaurant. Joseph offers me a lift, but I wave him off. I understand the purgatory he’s living, but I’ve had enough of his doubts and peregrinations for the moment. I need an afternoon off.

  “There’s a gallery I want to see. And I like the little ferry back home.”

  “Suit yourself,” he says, then eases his car onto the road.

  I make my way down the boardwalk to the market building, then eastward to the galleries that occupy this part of the island. I find the one I want and enter.

  An artist is at work in an alcove near the door. I stop to inspect the reds and blues he is slashing on the canvas. He notices. “How ya doin’, sister?”

  I smile. “S
o far, so good.” I gesture to his painting. “Nice work.”

  I move toward the end of the gallery, drawn to a play of abstract forms of white against an encroaching black background. Still free, but menace all about. I stand very still and take it in.

  And then I feel it—a grip on my shoulder, a male voice, rough. “I thought I might find you here.”

  I freeze. So, Danny has come for me. I’ve never done an abduction case. Precisely how does this particular crime work? I wonder. A tiny pistol in the small of my back as my assailant and I make our way to the door in companionable embrace, like in the movies?

  The grip tightens on my clavicle. Against my will, I feel my body pivot. I look up, gasp at the familiar face before me.

  “Mike,” I say.

  CHAPTER 13

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” I ask, my heart rate slowing.

  He offers a crooked smile. “Good question. I was on my way home from lunch at the Sandbar. There you were, trundling along, toting your bags. I don’t know—call it impulse—I did a U-turn and followed. I saw you come in here.”

  “You scared me, Mike.”

  His brows knit together in concern. “How so?”

  “There’s a guy—an ex-client—who I have reason to believe wishes me ill.”

  “So you walk around afraid, Jilly? Have you told the police?”

  “No.”

  “Well, do it.”

  I feel myself bristle, tell myself to cool it. Like he says, this is just a chance encounter. We take stock. I note the trench coat that swings loose from his shoulders, the quality scarf looped around his neck. Same lanky height, same high forehead, same long line of cheek. But I see new lines around his eyes, and there’s a touch of grey in the fashionable stubble that now defines his chin. The old Mike, but changed. I like the look but not its intensity. I step back.

  “You look good, Jilly,” he says.

  “You look older,” I say. “And—”

  “And what?”

  Sadder, I want to say, instead I blurt, “How’s Ashling?” The words are out before I can stop them. I curse myself. What do I care about Ashling, or whoever he chooses to see?

  He gives me a quizzical look. “Ashling’s fine, although she doesn’t have your taste in art.” He scans the white colour-stabbed expanse of wall before us. “Nice gallery. Nice stuff. I’ll have to come back.”

  I nod.

  He glances at his watch. “Listen, what are you doing right now? Fancy a drink at mine? I can tell you all about Ashling, whatever you want to know. Show you some of the new pictures I’ve bought. Hear how you’ve been. It’s been ages.”

  It would be so easy to fall into his arms, so nice to feel them wrap around me. And then I remember his parting ultimatum—all or nothing—and steel myself. Besides, I’m making things up. I see Mike’s offer for what it is: a suggestion—take it or, if you prefer, leave it. Just an idea, a way for two exes who were once friends to catch up. I can say no and walk away. I look at him again, think of all that has passed between us. I’ve been in denial too long. It’s time to exit the state of limbo in which I’ve been living for the past year, one way or the other.

  “Very well,” I say tersely.

  “Good.” He picks up the bags I had dropped to the floor and the delicious scent of roasted duck wafts up. “I see you’ve brought dinner.”

  “You know me. Ever thoughtful.”

  He laughs, and it transforms his face. I turn away quickly.

  “This way,” he gestures, and we head for his car. We find it wedged into an illegal parking space in the next block. He tears the parking ticket from the wiper and stuffs it in his pocket. The car is new—he’s traded in his old BMW for a sleek new Porsche, it seems.

  We idle in traffic at the bridge, not moving. Mike fills the space with small talk; he’s working nonstop on a new app for courthouse scheduling. “High time someone did something,” I say. Abruptly the blockage clears, and we’re off the island and headed to the big stone house in lower Shaughnessy that Mike inherited when his parents died in a car accident in Italy fifteen years ago.

  “You’ve changed things,” I say, taking in the entry hall, which now boasts designer chairs on a Persian rug before the fireplace. “I mean, you’ve finally got furniture.” After the death of his parents, Mike had emptied the house and lived that way for more than a decade.

  “Some furniture,” he corrects. “I decided that if you wouldn’t help me set up the house, I’d have to do it myself. The library’s done, but the rest is a work in progress.”

  I look at him, nonplussed. “My exit from your life seems to have done you good, Mike.”

  He considers. “I didn’t like it at the time, but yes, it did me good. Forced me to grow up.”

  We pass through the hall into the kitchen. It’s one of those huge affairs built for professional cooks and big parties, where you walk a mile to find anything. But now an enormous island sits in the middle, easing the flow as the designers say.

  Mike plunks the bags on the marble top. “Why don’t you have a look around while I putter?” he suggests.

  “Sure.”

  I wander into the dining room. A giant abstract by a Calgary artist I like dominates the far wall, but there is still no table. In the living room, the Plaskett we shopped for together still hangs over the mantel and the grand piano occupies the alcove. But the shabby loveseat where I sat as he played the Debussy I loved is gone, a single Eames chair in its place. This is where Ashling sits as he plays for her, I think. At least he had the grace to change the seating.

  I have been living for the past year with the image of Mike pining away in solitary despair, when in fact he has been moving on and thriving. He’s made a new life. It’s clear my being here is about tidying up loose ends. I wince. I’ve been called many things, but never a loose end.

  Across the hall on the other side of the house, lies the library. I open the double doors and enter. Warmth surrounds me. This is where the new Mike lives. Bookshelves line the walls, and a stone fireplace angles across the far corner, flanked by old leather chairs. A TV screen sits discreetly on one of the shelves, and music lover that he is, Mike has installed a sound system.

  Back in the hall, I hesitate. I don’t want to go upstairs, don’t want to see any traces of Ashling’s presence. But my feet begin to climb anyway. There are rooms and rooms up here. I pass an open door; the banks of screens that Mike needs for his work gleam dimly in the darkness. I continue to his bedroom, push tentatively on the door, and step back in shock.

  I remember this as a rumpled room, redolent of male neglect, tangled black sheets on an unmade bed, piles of books shucked randomly on the floor, dirty glasses cementing permanent rings on side tables. You said you’d done the library, Mike; you should have warned me about this. The bed is a square of pristine quilted linen on a sea of blue-green carpet. A chaise longue sits before the window, soft cushions beckoning repose. On the small table at the side of the bed, a single red rose blooms. I move back; I don’t need to see a lace negligee Ashling left in the dressing room.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, I put on a bright face. Mike presents me with a flute of bubbly.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Your favourite, if I recall—le Veuve.”

  “I can see that.” The bottle of Veuve Cliquot stands on the counter, still wrapped in its linen towel.

  “Oh, you mean the toast. To your unexpected presence, Jilly. Or simply to a glass of bon vin, if you prefer. Take your pick.”

  I prevaricate. “To you, Mike,” I say as I raise my glass. “To the new Mike.”

  He clinks his glass to mine, then returns to business. “I’m ravenous. Let’s see if we can get this meal together.”

  We get to work. I relax into the reassuring familiarity of being back in the kitchen together. I pull out the confit de canard, arrange it in a pan, and place it in a low oven to warm. I hand Mike a parcel of endive. “Wash this, please.”

  “Yes
, ma’am.”

  Standing beside him at the sink, I peel the small potatoes I bought at the market.

  “What are you doing with those?” he asks.

  “Pommes de terre Sarladaise. I’ve taken to watching cooking shows on Sunday mornings. This is an old Périgord recipe I picked up last week. Peel the potatoes, slice them, parboil to soften, then combine with other good things—butter, bacon bits.”

  “Soften up, meld to perfection. Sounds like a recipe for seduction.”

  “Been practicing, Mike?”

  “More thinking, I’d say.”

  We sip in silence while we wait for our food to come together. Mike corks the champagne and pours two glasses of Bordeaux. “Not Château Margaux, but acceptable,” he pronounces.

  We carry our plates and glasses to the back terrace. Mike must have laid out cutlery and napkins while I was upstairs. Candles glow on the glass table against the gathering darkness.

  Our improbable meal, against all expectations, has come together spectacularly. The green tomato relish I found at the market complements the canard perfectly. We eat slowly. We both know what’s coming. We work to delay it, but a meal this good can’t last forever.

  Mike, who once preferred fast food to real, approves. “For someone who’s just taken up cooking shows, Jilly, this is amazing.”

  I place my fork on my empty plate. “I’m sure Ashling cooks from scratch,” I needle against my better judgment.

  Mikes wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Surely you’re not jealous, Jilly. It was you who told me to find someone else, as I recall.”

  He’s right, I did. So why am I now saying, “Tell me about her.”

  “Short version, nothing to tell.”

  What do you mean, nothing to tell? I think angrily. “Long version, please.”

  He sighs. “Very well. I had this app for IBM. They were pretty excited about it. They put Ashling on the file. We worked intensely, all online, but we had great rapport. And then they sent her up for a couple of weeks of collaboration to put the finishing touches on the package.”

  “And?”