by Gail Bowen
At the entrance a doorman took our car keys, handed them to a valet, and ushered us inside. Built in 1912 and, except for the ghost of a prostitute who had been murdered in one of the upstairs bedrooms eons ago, closed to women for most of its existence, the club was an anachronism. That said, the old codger of a building knew how to party. Antique wall sconces cast a warm and welcoming glow in the foyer, and within seconds a young woman in a white blouse and black skirt, stockings, and oxfords appeared, took our coats, and handed me numbered tags that I tucked in my bag. Her voice was low and friendly. “It’s a chilly night and the fireplace in the Portrait Gallery is lit,” she said. “Someone will see to your drinks.”
We smiled our thanks and sailed into the Portrait Gallery where a male pianist with a pencil-thin moustache and centre-parted hair, smooth and shiny as patent leather, was playing mellow jazz on a baby grand. Men in black tie and women in jewel-toned gowns sipped champagne and looked pleased with themselves.
Zack gave me an approving once-over. “I love that dress,” he said.
“So do I,” I said. “It’s classic and comfortable. I’ll be able to wear it forever.”
Zack placed his hand on the side of my waist. “Could you turn around for a minute?” When I turned, he sighed with satisfaction. The dress had a very deep V back. For a man in a wheelchair the bottom of the V was at eye level and within easy reach, and Zack reached. “This evening is getting off to a great start,” he said.
Angus gave a theatrical cough. “In case you’d forgotten, I’m standing right beside you.”
“So you are,” Zack said. “And standing right behind you is a server who appears to be waiting for our drink orders.”
As soon as we’d ordered, another server appeared with a silver tray of hot appetizers. Zack glanced around the room and smiled. “I could get used to this,” he said.
“No you couldn’t,” I said. “You’re the people’s mayor.”
“ ‘What we desire for ourselves, we wish for all,’ ” Zack said.
“You have to be the first person who ever quoted J.S. Woodsworth within the walls of the Scarth Club,” I said and inhaled deeply. “What is that scent wafting from the kitchen. Prime rib?”
“Whatever it is, it smells great,” Zack said. “Another first for the Scarth Club – an edible meal. It’s a miracle.”
A bourbon-cured bass boomed out behind us. “Not a miracle. Just Annie and me doing something that needed to be done.” The voice belonged to Warren Weber, one of our closest friends and the man who, I suspected, was picking up the tab for the party tonight.
As always, his wife, Annie, was beside him. “We gave the club chef the night off and hired Evolution Catering,” she said.
The Webers were a striking couple. Warren was eighty, a handsome man with erect bearing, an enviable head of thick snowy hair, an always meticulously trimmed Tom Selleck moustache, and a level, flinty gaze. He was fond of vibrant colours, and that night his black dinner suit was enlivened by a regency-purple tuxedo vest and tie. The Webers were partial to outfits in complementary hues. Annie, a sweet-faced twenty-six-year-old blonde with eyes as steely as her husband’s, was wearing a shimmery heliotrope gown and a necklace of purple garnets the exact shade of Warren’s vest and tie. Tongues wagged when the Webers married, but the gossips were wrong. Warren and Annie were a love match, and they were one of the happiest couples we knew.
Annie looked fondly at her husband. “Patsy Choi convinced us that we couldn’t ask people to shell out a thousand bucks a plate and serve them shoe leather,” she said.
Zack guffawed. “Aren’t you afraid the club’s chef will wreak his revenge on you, Warren?”
Warren shrugged. “I’ve been eating here for over fifty years. He’s already done his worst.”
“Maybe, but you’re still my hero,” I said.
Warren’s bow was courtly. “Thank you, Joanne, but the person who performed the real magic is coming our way.”
I’d been present at three of the planning meetings for the dinner, and Patsy had always worn business clothing – simple, corporate, and chic. That night she was stunning in a poppy-red cheongsam dress that clung to her slender figure and set off her translucent ivory skin and dark eyes.
In my dealings with her, I’d been impressed by Patsy’s quick intelligence and openness to ideas other than her own. Her passion for creating a foundation that provided funding to help young adults was not surprising. Salvaging a damaged life was a cause about which Patsy had reason to feel passionate.
At fourteen Patsy Choi was already a violin prodigy in her native China. A wealthy uncle brought Patsy to Canada, gave her a home, arranged for tutors to educate her and for the finest of violin teachers to give her private lessons. When she turned seventeen, Patsy rebelled, saying she was tired of living a life of isolation. She wanted to be a girl like other girls and she was moving out of her uncle’s house. Patsy’s uncle happened to be tenderizing a piece of round steak with a wooden mallet when she declared her independence. Enraged, he grabbed Patsy, forced her hand down on the chopping block, and after systematically smashing the fingers on her left hand, grabbed her right hand and began pounding.
The case against the uncle was a civil case, tort of assault; the charge, in the archaic language of the law, was “wrongful touching.” As plaintiff, Patsy had to prove her damages. The uncle’s defence team was convincing, arguing that the uncle was a philanthropist, a loving relative who had done everything in his power to nurture his niece and her talent. The trial was long, drawn-out, and expensive, but ultimately Patsy was awarded a seven-figure judgment and she set about rebuilding her life. She appeared to be doing a fine job.
Patsy’s speaking voice was very soft and her manners impeccable. She welcomed us all and then gestured to the rapidly filling Portrait Gallery. “Joanne and Zack, many people are eager to speak with you. Please allow me to take you around to greet your guests.”
“Annie and I can handle that,” Warren said. “Patsy, you’ve worked hard pulling this evening together, and I know you have a long night ahead. Why don’t you and Angus find a quiet place and have a glass of champagne together,” he said, winking at the two young people.
Angus and Patsy shared a glance. “I think that’s a lovely idea,” she said. “Thank you, Warren.” When she and our son left in search of a place where they could be alone, they were both beaming.
Zack waited until he was sure they were out of earshot. “I think that, thanks to Warren, we’ve just discovered the identity of Angus’s mystery woman,” he said.
“Fingers crossed you’re right,” I said. “Patsy’s a keeper.”
“She is indeed,” Warren said. “Now, I’ve promised that Annie and I will squire you two around, so we’d best get started.”
—
The Scarth Club’s Portrait Gallery always made me smile. The walls were filled with paintings of all the men who had served as the club’s president. Throughout the years, trends in men’s clothing and tonsorial preferences came and went, but overweening pride was always in fashion and, to a man, the faces of the club’s president glowed with the sheen of self-regard. The words carved into the mantel above the fireplace said it all: “They builded better than they knew.”
By nature gregarious, my husband was always quick to join the party. After Warren and Annie had finished taking us around to greet our guests, Zack smiled at me. “Time to mix and mingle,” he said. “Are you ready?”
“I think I’ll linger with the portraits for a while,” I said. Zack moved closer and ran his hand up my arm. “I really do love that dress,” he said. As he wheeled towards the door to the reception area, my husband was still smiling.
I was admiring the mutton chops of James MacLennan, club president from 1916 to 1920, when I smelled the aftershave, heavy with the scent of musk, that proclaimed Darryl Colby was in the room. Tall, heavy-set, raven-haired, and always deeply tanned, Darryl, like his cologne, did not respect personal space, and when
he reached me he positioned himself so close that the toes of our shoes touched. Zack’s relationship with most of the trial lawyers in town was cordial, but Darryl got under his skin. In my husband’s opinion, Darryl was a junkyard lawyer who, somewhere along the line, had misplaced his conscience and who, even when he was winning, relished the chance to take a chunk out of opposing counsel. He was not a person with whom I wished to touch toes, and I stepped back.
“This is a surprise,” I said.
“And not a pleasant one,” Darryl said. His bass was big and rumbling. A nearby couple turned towards us.
I lowered my own voice, hoping Darryl would take the hint. “The Christopher Altieri Foundation is doing important work,” I said. “It’s good of you to support it.”
“A friend gave me a ticket.”
“Generous friend,” I said. “Anyone I know?”
His laugh was jeering. “An admirer of Falconer Shreve,” he said. “But aren’t we all?” And with that, he walked away.
I was trying to regain my equilibrium through deep breathing and a closer examination of James MacLennan’s mutton chops when I was ambushed again. My new acquaintance had a disproportionately large head – bald and egg-shaped, like Humpty Dumpty. He was disinfecting his tiny hands with a sanitizing wipe, and he was thorough. “Just about done,” he said.
When finished, he dropped the wipe into the brass pot of a weeping fig and introduced himself. “I’m Emmett Keating,” he said. I glanced around to see if one of the partners was close enough to flag if the situation with Keating became awkward. I was out of luck, so I focused on the man standing in front of me. He didn’t extend his sanitized hand, and I didn’t offer mine.
“Joanne Shreve,” I said.
“I recognized you,” he said. “And it’s time we met. Falconer Shreve is a family firm, and I’m happy to say I’m about to become part of the family.”
The prudent course of action would have been to offer a vague pleasantry and move along, but it was already too late for that. Emmett had begun his monologue, and the fire-hose of his speech that Margot had warned about was aimed directly at me. There was nothing to do but listen. His voice was pleasant – low-pitched and well-modulated – a storyteller’s voice, and Emmett Keating had a story to tell.
I didn’t need a timepiece to measure how long it took him to weave together the many strands of Falconer Shreve’s history. When it came to oral narrative, Emmett was an adherent of the leisurely pace. He started with the meeting of Zack and his colleagues during their first year at law school and moved through their academic triumphs into their articling year: Delia at the Supreme Court; Blake in Toronto; Kevin in Calgary; Chris in Vancouver; and Zack in Regina with Fred L. Harney, a brilliant lawyer and a drunk prone to blackouts who needed a smart young law graduate to supply replays of exactly what had happened in court when he sobered up. Emmett Keating described Falconer Shreve’s firsts in meticulous detail: the firm’s first law office in a building they shared with a company that made dentures; Delia’s first appearance before the Supreme Court; the first of Zack’s wins that garnered national attention; Chris’s first million-dollar settlement; Blake’s first Top 100–ranked corporate client; Kevin’s first defection to Tibet in search of answers he wasn’t finding in law practice. Listening to Emmett Keating’s glowing recitation of the firm’s growth was mesmerizing, and when Blake, Kevin, and a woman with a confident stride and edgy, silver-grey cropped hair approached, I had to shake myself to rejoin the real world.
Blake and Kevin were smooth, but it was clear their desire to socialize with Emmett was less than fervent. They greeted him civilly, embraced me, and then Kevin introduced his companion. “This is Katina Posaluko-Chapman from Calgary,” he said. “Tina, meet Joanne Shreve and Emmett Keating.”
The woman who would soon head the Calgary office had a firm handshake; the faint dusting of freckles across her pert nose was appealing and her smile was unforced. I liked her on sight. “So you’re visiting Regina and have to spend the evening listening to speeches praising Zack,” I said. “I hope Kevin is at least paying for dinner.”
Katina’s deep-set hazel eyes showed amusement. “I made sure of that. I’m here on business, but I’ve already booked a spa day at the Hotel Saskatchewan.”
“Very wise,” I said. “I’ve heard the Honey Detox and Chocolate Truffle Body Wrap is decadent.”
“A Chocolate Truffle Body Wrap is a definite step-up from the Lifebuoy soap of my youth,” Katina said and, grateful for an end to the awkwardness that Emmett Keating’s presence had brought, I smiled.
Blake looked towards the door. “It appears dinner is about to be served.” He offered me his arm. “Jo, Zack asked me to tell you he’ll meet you inside. Shall we…?” Kevin held his arm out to Katina and turned to Emmett. “Have a pleasant evening,” he said.
Emmett Keating raised his hand in a halt sign. “Not so fast,” he said. “I haven’t congratulated Ms. Posaluko-Chapman on being hired by Falconer Shreve, and as an equity partner no less.”
Tina was clearly surprised at Emmett’s breach of etiquette, but she was gracious. “Thanks for the good wishes,” she said and offered her hand.
Emmett ignored it and pressed on. “Now it’s your turn, Ms. Posaluko-Chapman,” he said. “This is where you congratulate me on being named an equity partner.” He pronounced each word slowly and precisely. My grandmother would have said his articulation was that of a man teaching a cow to speak.
It was Blake who responded. “Perhaps it’s best to defer the congratulations until the news is official,” he said.
Emmett’s small mouth curled in a smirk. “No need,” he said. “Delia Wainberg and I have settled my offer to our mutual satisfaction.” He turned to join the crowd that was moving towards the dining room.
Tina spoke first. “I’ll bite,” she said. “So Mr. Keating will be promoted as one of the new equity partners after all?”
Kevin shook his head in disbelief. “I’m not going to bullshit you, Tina. We have decided to promote Keating. We assumed he would keep his lips zipped, but I guess he couldn’t wait to trumpet the happy news. I’m sorry you were put in an awkward spot.”
“No harm done,” Tina said, and then she rolled her eyes. “But Holy Crudmore, you guys in the Regina office really know how to screw up big-time.”
Katina’s pithy comment didn’t require follow-up, so without further discussion the four of us trooped in to dinner.
—
Patsy Choi had arranged the seating, and I was happy to see that Kevin and Tina were at our table. Kevin and I had demanding lives and we lived in cities 760 kilometres apart, but our friendship was a comfortable shoe that, even after weeks without seeing each other, we were able to slip into effortlessly. The Falconer Shreve partners had always enjoyed that same ease in one another’s company, but tensions at the firm had frayed Zack and Kevin’s relationship, and I knew they would welcome another chance to re-establish the old closeness.
Tina had won me with her eye roll and snappy assessment of the Regina office’s handling of the equity partnership list. She was right. They had blundered badly, and I looked forward to hearing more of her straight talk at dinner. Warren and Annie Weber were always good company, and I was pleased to see their names on the placecards at our table. Patsy Choi and Angus were seated with us as well, and as we all took our places, I caught her eye and mouthed the words thank you.
The dinner was excellent. Airy, golden Yorkshire pudding accompanied succulent prime rib, the vegetables had not spent a millisecond on a steam table, the wine was plentiful, and the talk at our table was serious without being stolid. Not surprisingly, much of the discussion focused on the life and times of Chris Altieri. His photograph was on the front of the program. It was a photo taken in summer, and Chris was deeply tanned. His dark hair, obviously wet from a swim, curled at the nape of his neck. His eyes were piercingly blue, and his smile was shy but winning. This was the man whom Chris’s friends had remembered at
his wake. I turned to Zack. “How old was Chris in this picture?”
Zack’s face grew soft. “Maybe in his late thirties,” he said, taking my hand in his. We were both still focused on the photo. “Hard to imagine that man committing suicide, isn’t it?” Zack said. I had no words of comfort, so I simply squeezed his hand.
There was laughter across the table. During exams at the end of their first year at the College of Law, Kevin and Chris had discovered that practical jokes offered surefire relief from pressure. Later, as the stresses of establishing and growing a new law firm mounted, the two men found respite in dreaming up increasingly elaborate but always light-hearted pranks. As Zack listened to Kevin recount some of Chris’s successful if sophomoric practical jokes, I could feel his spirits lift and mine lifted too.
I was still laughing at the tales of office hijinks when I spotted Darryl Colby in what appeared to be a heated conversation with Emmett Keating at a table across the room. I drew Zack’s attention to the pair. “Darryl made his presence known to me earlier. He didn’t mention that he’d be sitting at a table with Emmett Keating,” I said. “What do you make of that?”
Zack shook his head. “Maybe just a case of birds of a feather flocking together,” he said.
“Do you really think Emmett belongs in the same category as Darryl Colby?”
“I wouldn’t have said so before,” Zack said. “But I’m uneasy about Delia’s sudden reversal on Emmett’s candidacy for equity partner. Dee’s a stickler for precise wording, and the four words she wrote beside Keating’s name left no room for interpretation.”
“ ‘Not Falconer Shreve material,’ ” I said. “That certainly is definitive.”