by Gail Bowen
“Whatever you’re doing seems to be working. You look great.”
“Great is probably stretching it, but I do feel better. It’s been so good being with Em and Chloe. They’re remarkable.” Her smile was rueful. “They’re also twenty-five years younger than I am, and I wouldn’t mind an hour under a tree doing nothing.”
When Zack joined us, Ginny and I were talking about daughters. “You two look content,” he said. “How’s it going, Ginny?”
“Better, thanks.”
“And the twins?”
“We’re all doing fine, but I have a feeling you’re about to burst my bubble.”
Zack’s voice was gentle. “Nope. Just going to pass along some information you need to have. We’ve had a team of investigators going through Jason’s business dealings, and Sean, Margot Wright, and my partner Blake are spending the weekend examining their findings. Sean just called with a kind of preliminary report. Ginny, there’s no doubt that Jason was brokering real estate deals for sex-trade workers.”
Ginny swallowed hard. “But he wasn’t a pimp.”
“He was living off money he received from prostitutes. Some people might find it hard to make the distinction.”
“Does Sean think he was killed because of his association with those women?”
“He thinks it’s a possibility, but there’s something else. In the weeks before Cristal Avilia’s death, she and Jason were in constant touch. Cristal had sizable real estate holdings. She went to my partner Blake and asked him to put them on the market. Blake refused. He said real estate prices in the warehouse area were going to skyrocket, and that Cristal should wait.”
“So she went to Jason instead,” Ginny said.
“Apparently. Luckily for Cristal’s heir, these things take time. But Jason did manage to sell two of the condominiums that Cristal owned in another building. The deposits were both paid in cash. The police found $50,000 in cash in Jason’s house. The problem is that the rest of the money is missing. It’s a large amount. Sean thinks it’s possible that Jason murdered Cristal for the cash.”
“And then someone associated with one of those women killed him.”
“Yes.” Zack took a breath. “Ginny, I know this is ugly, but there is a silver lining. The police will have the same information we have. I don’t think you’re a serious suspect any more.”
Ginny rubbed her temples. “Tell everybody how grateful I am, especially Sean. He never gives up. He’s a terrific lawyer, Zack. Your firm is lucky to have him.”
“I take it you and Sean have talked about his future.”
“Yes. I’d offered him a job with me before everything blew up, but he’s very loyal to you. He says Falconer Shreve is where he wants to be.”
“And that’s where he’s going to be. After we talked this afternoon, I offered him a junior partnership and he accepted.”
“I’m happy for him,” Ginny said, and her voice was fervent. “He deserves the best.”
Keith Harris arrived just as the girls finished digging the last metre of their waterway. He had time to throw off his jacket and lift a ceremonial shovel of sand before the Brodnitz twins and Taylor scooped buckets of water out of the lake, carried them up the slope, and Maddy and Lena tipped the first bucket. As the water made its way down the system of culverts and dams, we held our collective breath; when, finally, it emptied into the lake, our cry of joy was spontaneous. Beside me, Chloe and Em gave each other a high-five. They were the mirror image of each other, and when Chloe’s face crumpled, Em’s did too.
“For a moment I almost forgot,” Em said. “But it’s all still there, isn’t it?”
Chloe draped her arm around her sister’s shoulder, and they turned and walked towards the cottage: two handsome young women caught in the web of private grief.
As we watched my granddaughters tip bucket after bucket into the waterway, then run down the hill to watch the water arrive in the lake, Ginny decided a communal accomplishment demanded a communal celebration. As her thank you for the weekend, she offered to take us all out to dinner. Given our range of age and moods, there was only one choice: Magoo’s, a diner across the lake where for $10, a hearty eater could plow through homemade cheeseburgers, greasy onion rings, homemade slaw with a vinegar kick, and milkshakes so thick they had to be eaten with a spoon. After dinner, patrons could drop quarters in a jukebox and burn off the calories on an old wooden dance floor. Chief among its many draws was that Magoo’s could be reached by boat, and so by five-thirty, we were all down at the dock, donning life jackets and taking our places. Keith, who wanted to get to know his grandnieces, went with Zack, Maddy, Lena, and me; Taylor, who wanted to get to know the Brodnitz twins, went with them and their mother, who was driving Blake Falconer’s Chris-Craft.
Musically, Magoo’s was heavy on nostalgia, and as the motors were cut and we glided towards the dock, the plangent notes of Rick Nelson’s “Garden Party” filled the air. It was an evening for an anthem to the truth that you can’t please everyone, so you might as well please yourself, and as Ginny steered her boat expertly into the slip beside ours, she was humming along.
That night exists for me in sharp-edged memories: Keith’s gruff delight as Maddy and Lena took his hands and pulled him onto the dance floor where they all rocked to Buddy Holly until our food orders arrived; my husband putting a quarter in the jukebox, pushing the button beside the Beach Boys’ “God Only Knows,” and never taking his eyes off my face until the song ended; Ginny and her daughters, all three ponytailed and in jeans and sweatshirts, bending over their plates and eating with the stoic determination of athletes who know that, no matter what, bodies must be fuelled; Taylor flushing with pleasure when a boy she remembered from the summer before came over and asked her to dance.
The emotional shoals were everywhere. Jason’s brutal death and uncertainty about what was next were fresh in the minds of every adult at the table, but Maddy and Lena’s delight in every detail of the evening was infectious and the sweet optimism of the music was tonic. The sun was setting as we drove back across the lake, but none of us wanted the evening to end. Taylor and the Brodnitz girls went over to their cottage, and after Zack and I tucked the granddaughters in, we brought out the brandy and snifters and sat on the deck with Keith and Ginny until the sun fell beneath the horizon and the first firefly appeared.
The next morning was not as chaotic as our leave-takings from the lake often were when the girls had school. It was the May long weekend, so we dawdled over breakfast, took the dogs for a long walk, then paid a last visit to the miraculous waterway. The long-term weather forecast was for continuous rain, an ominous prospect for a structure made of sand, but neither Zack nor I mentioned that to Maddy and Lena. Ginny and her daughters came over to help us load the cars, and walked to the gate to wave us off. Despite everything, we’d enjoyed one another’s company, and when I told Ginny they could go back to the guest cabin after E-Day and stay as long as they wanted to, I meant it.
Taylor rode back with Zack. He was anxious to talk to Blake, and Taylor was keen to talk to Gracie. I dropped off the dogs, then drove to UpSlideDown. There were at least a dozen kids on the outside play structures and a dozen mothers at Crayola-coloured wooden tables, sipping coffee and watching their children. It was quiet inside, but the smell of brewing coffee and fresh baking was welcoming. When Mieka came out of the kitchen, Maddy and Lena ran to her.
Mieka knelt and held out her arms to the girls. “Did you ladies have a good weekend?”
“Really good,” Maddy said. “We dug up a hill, went for three boat rides, and ate onion rings and milkshakes.”
“Sounds like a full schedule,” Mieka said.
Lena wandered off towards the castle. “Charlotte died,” she said over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mieka said. She turned to me. “Were they good?”
“They’re always good,” I said. “So how was your weekend?”
Mieka frowned. “Perplexing. Sean call
ed and invited me to dinner.”
“That sounds promising. So what happened?”
“In a word – nothing,” Mieka said. There was a dust-up between two small boys who had divergent ideas about who got to go down the curvy green slide first. Mieka scanned the situation until the mothers of the adversaries separated them, then she turned back to me.
“I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I have to talk to somebody. It started out to be one of those enchanted evenings, and I was beginning to rethink my theory that Sean was just a post-divorce crush. He brought me a bouquet of white tulips, some truly great champagne, and a box of truffles – ‘for afterwards,’ he said. We ate out on the deck, we watched the sunset, then we went into the house, fell onto the couch, and made out like people who were more than just friends. Everything was moving in the right direction and then it wasn’t. I’ve reconstructed this a few thousand times since Friday night: all I can think of is that everything went off track when we went up to my room and Sean saw that picture of the girls on my night table.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Yes. He said, ‘I can’t do this.’ Then he straightened his clothing, apologized, mumbled that he hoped we could still be friends, and beat a hasty retreat.”
“Do you think he felt guilty because of the girls?”
Mieka rolled her eyes. “This is the twenty-first century, Mum. People don’t feel guilty. I think maybe he just didn’t want to get involved with a woman who has children.”
“Well, it’s his loss,” I said “Are you okay?”
“My pride’s a little dented. I’m ticked that I spent all that money on new underwear, but I’ll survive.” She wiped the surface of an already-shining tabletop. “Mum, the ladies and I have a very good life. I don’t need a prince charming, even if he is a really good kisser and has the sexiest smile besides Val Kilmer’s.”
Election day dawned chilly and drizzly. Spring was withholding her favours, and those who took politics seriously were not surprised. No matter what the weather on E-Day, it was bad news. Sunshine and tree-riffling breezes sent voters to golf courses and picnic grounds; rainstorms kept them parked in front of their TVS; blizzards brought road closures. It was a universally acknowledged political truth: one way or another, the weather would screw you.
There was another truth: no matter when the writ was dropped, E-Day was always the longest day of the year. Suddenly, the campaign was whittled down to now or never. The time for strategizing was over; people had either made up their minds where to put their X or had decided to close their eyes, hold their nose, and let fate guide their hand. All the professionals could do was control their own voter turnout. That meant scrutineers in every polling station striking off names of party members as they voted, and runners who took the marked sheets to safe houses where other workers called to harangue supporters who hadn’t voted. Busy work, but at least it was work.
The candidates weren’t so lucky. Since the night they were nominated, the candidates had been putting in sixteen-hour days, in which every block of time was accounted for. Now they had nothing to do but be photographed before they stepped into the polling booth to vote for themselves, then go home to sweat it out.
Ginny’s polling station was at Lakeview, Taylor’s school, and Zack and I had already dropped Taylor off and voted when Ginny came in with Keith, Milo, and her daughters. The Friends of Ginny Monaghan were nowhere in sight. A week ago, people had been elbowing one another to get close to the woman who had a good shot at becoming the party’s new leader, but there’s truth in the axiom that, in politics, a week is a lifetime. Ginny had been in the game long enough to know that even when it’s over, you have to look as if you believe it’s not. She and her girls were dressed for victory: Ginny in a smart pantsuit in her party’s new eco-friendly team colours of teal and cloud white, and the twins in long skirts and shirts with button-down collars.
The girls came over to us as their mother disappeared behind the cardboard shield intended to keep her vote private.
“Good to see you,” Zack said. “You’re doing the right thing. Stay in their faces. Make them know you’re there.”
Em looked at him with interest. “Same as in basketball.”
“Same as in a courtroom. Same as in everything. Don’t let your opponents dominate the game.”
“We’ve adopted a new family motto,” Em said. “It was in that old song we heard at Magoo’s. Remember: ‘You can’t please everyone, so you’ve got to please yourself’?”
“Words to live by. So are you going back to the lake when this is over?”
“Our school is cool with us staying away till next week.” Em swallowed hard. “My dad was cremated today. That’s a weird thought.” She squared her shoulders and pasted on a smile as Ginny emerged from the polling booth, handed her folded ballot to the returning officer, and then, smile broader than ever, faced the photographers.
“It’s worse for her,” Chloe said thoughtfully. “She’s lost everything.”
I looked at the two fresh-faced young women. “No, she hasn’t,” I said.
When Ginny came over to us, I could see the tension in the set of her jaw. “So did I get your vote?” she asked.
“I always vote for our clients,” Zack said.
Ginny cocked her head at me. “And you, Joanne?” Her slate-grey eyes were measuring. “Were you prepared to throw away your vote?”
“I didn’t throw it away,” I said. “But I did vote for you. You were the best candidate.”
“Past tense,” Ginny said. “But thanks anyway. So, are you doing a stint for NationTV tonight?”
“I am. From the times the polls close here till we know who forms the next government.”
Ginny laughed. “Well, better you than me.” She turned to her daughters. “Let’s rent some movies and get you guys settled in back at the condo. I’ve got a day of visiting polling stations and a concession speech ahead, but if it’s all right with the Shreves, we can go back to the lake tonight.”
“It’s fine with the Shreves,” I said. “Stay as long as you want.”
The rain was coming down in sheets when Zack and I left the school. I opened our umbrella and held it over him. “I’ll walk you to your car,” I said. “And then I think I’ll just go home. I was planning to drive to Moose Jaw and trail after Ginny on her last day as a candidate, but that overpass near Belleplaine scares me when it’s raining.”
“Then stay put,” Zack said. “You’ve got a long evening, and you’ve been working hard. Take the day off and do your homework.”
“You always tell me exactly what I want to hear,” I said.
“That’s because I’m not stupid,” Zack said, then the two of us raced through the rain towards his car and whatever future election day would bring.
As soon as I got home I went to our room to change into my jeans. Firebrand and Abstract #1 were still propped against the wall at the bottom of the bed. I picked up the phone, called Ed Mariani, told him that we had two new paintings, and asked for his help in deciding where to place them. When he heard the pieces were by Scott Plear and Taylor, Ed was enthusiastic. “I’ll be over in twenty minutes,” he said. “I’ve got a class at twelve-thirty, but that should give us time enough.”
Ed arrived carrying his tool-case and wearing a bright yellow slicker. As I took them from him in the front hall, water dripped onto the hardwood. Ed kicked off his shoes and scurried to the kitchen in search of a mop. “Sorry, Jo. Barry had that thing specially made because he worries that some driver might not spot me in the rain and plow into me, even though I’m not exactly a slip of a thing like him. I say, ‘Get over yourself, Mary,’ but Barry still makes me wear that football field of tarpaulin every time a drop descends from the heavens.”
I hung the slicker on the hall tree and slid one of the dogs’ towels under it to catch the drips. “Zack makes me carry my cellphone when I run Willie and Pantera,” I said, “in case I slip. I guess we should be grateful we
’re loved.”
“I am grateful,” Ed said. “As the poet says, when we love, we give hostages to fortune.” He rubbed his hands together. “Enough of this. Take me to your prizes. I’m an ardent admirer of Plear. In my opinion, he’s one of the great contemporary colour field painters, and as for Taylor, well, Barry and I are very proud of our collection of her early works.”
“You were smart to get in on the ground floor,” I said. “This is Taylor’s first abstract. I think we’re all going to be glad we can say we knew her when.”
“That good?” Ed said.
“Come see for yourself.”
Ed followed me down the hall into the bedroom. When I flicked on the overhead lights, the large flat areas of colour on the two paintings roared to life. Ed was one of life’s great celebrators, and when it came to praise, he didn’t stint.
“Talk about a feast for the eyes,” he said as he approached Firebrand. “Plear layers those reds, golds, and oranges as if he’s laying on the colours for the dawn of the world. And the textures… If I touched that paint, I wouldn’t be surprised if it came off on my fingertip.” He leaned closer to Taylor’s piece. “Her silvers and blues are sublime and that little wash of black at the top of the canvas – genius. How did she know?”
“Instinct?” I said. “I guess that’s what makes Plear and Taylor the ones who paint and you and me the ones who are grateful, and I am grateful. Those pieces are perfect together.”
“That’s because they belong together,” Ed said. “The colours, the technique. Taylor was working off what Plear had done.”
“She worried about being derivative,” I said. “But she needed to learn.”
“And she did,” Ed said. “They’ll be spectacular side by side. You’ve got that huge wall. Firebrand is vertical and – what does Taylor call her painting?”
“Abstract #1,” I said.
“Delicious,” Ed said. “And Abstract #1 is horizontal. This is going to be such fun. Now let the humble craftsman do his part.”