by Gail Bowen
“And you trust her ability to make sound judgments.”
I felt a tendril of irritation growing. “We do,” I said. “Zephyr, if you have a specific concern about Taylor, let’s talk about it.”
Zephyr was dressed casually, in dove-grey slacks, flats, and a silk shirt the same vibrant pink as her lipstick. “I seemed to have raised your hackles,” she said. “But I’m on Taylor’s side, Joanne. I’ve talked to her at a number of gallery openings, and she’s a lovely girl. I wouldn’t want to see her hurt.”
“Neither would I,” I said and let the words hang in the air.
Zephyr poured the tea and handed me my cup. “I understand your daughter and Vale Frazier have become close,” she said. “Gabe Vickers mentioned to me that he was at the studio yesterday and sat in on part of the interview they did for Nexus. He said Taylor and Vale appear to trust each other completely.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“It could be,” she said. “I understand Vale is a complex young woman. She’s been acting professionally since she was very young. Gabe feels that she sometimes blurs the line between truth and fantasy.”
“She lies?”
Zephyr narrowed her eyes. “That’s a little harsh.”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “Vale had dinner with our family Sunday night, and Zack and I liked her. We found her open and perceptive. I appreciate your concern about Taylor, but I think we’d like to make up our own minds about her new friend.”
Zephyr stiffened. “I don’t mean to offend, Joanne. According to Gabe, during the interview Vale said that Taylor was the first person with whom she could be fully truthful about her life without fear of being judged. But I don’t believe Vale is a reliable narrator about the circumstances of her own life. Taylor is a fine young woman. I wouldn’t want her to be taken in by Vale’s embellishments.”
My first impulse was to tell Zephyr that Taylor’s relationship with Vale was none of her business, but I bit my tongue, in part because of what Zephyr’s former students had said about her kindness and generosity, in part because she was a significant client of Falconer Shreve, but also because the seed of doubt she planted had found fertile ground. The night Vale had dinner with our family, she said that to get the outcome she wanted as an actor, she had to play each moment completely in character. When she pointed out to Zack that, as a lawyer, he knew the value of playing the moment to get what he wanted, Vale had found an ally. There was no mystery about the outcome Vale wanted with Taylor. She longed for our daughter’s friendship. Given her history and training, it was entirely possible that Vale would present herself to Taylor in a guise that would ensure our daughter reached out to her.
The possibility was concerning, but it was by no means a certainty, and I was not about to act on it. I smiled at Zephyr. “I’ll ask Taylor to get in touch with you about the project with the young artists,” I said. “It really does sound like something she’d enjoy being involved in.”
It was time for a change of topic, and the Winslow home with its high ceilings, spacious rooms, and spiral staircase offered one. “This house must be beautiful at Christmas,” I said.
“It is,” Zephyr said, “More accurately, it was. My parents believed in decking the halls. I’m always so busy with the studio, I never quite get around to doing everything that they did.”
“That gorgeous poinsettia in your window is certainly welcoming,” I said.
As Zephyr gazed at the plant, her lips curved into a small and private smile. “It is spectacular, isn’t it?”
She turned back to me. “I imagine you and Zack have a busy holiday calendar.”
“We do. Between friends, clients, and our granddaughters’ endless December recitals, the days are full, but it’s fun. We’re looking forward to Gabe and Ainsley’s dinner for Rosamond Burke. I understand you’ll be there.”
“It should be an evening to remember,” Zephyr said.
“Have you met Rosamond?”
“I have,” she said.
“And…?”
Zephyr raised an eyebrow. “My father would say that Rosamond Burke, CBE, has panache.”
We both laughed and moved on to other topics, but Zephyr and I didn’t linger over our tea. We were both preoccupied. I had not assured her that I would caution Taylor, and my time with Zephyr had raised questions that I knew would nag at me. She walked me to the door and I thanked her for her hospitality. Just as I was about to step into the brisk morning air, Zephyr took my elbow and spoke with a low urgency. “For everyone’s sake, Joanne, give serious thought to what I said about Vale.” The intensity of her gaze rattled me. I assured her I’d take it into consideration and then said goodbye and hurried down the front walk.
* * *
—
For Taylor’s eighteenth birthday, her friend Gracie Falconer had sent her a handsome leather-covered journal. On the first page Gracie had written, “How people treat you is their karma. How you treat them is yours.” As I slid into the driver’s seat of our Volvo, I knew that neither Zephyr nor I had sent much positive energy into the universe during our time together. It was time to redress the balance.
I took out my phone and called April’s Place. Angela Greyeyes answered. “It’s Joanne,” I said. “Could you use an extra pair of hands for the next couple of hours?”
“Come over,” she said. “We’re gearing up for soup and bannock time.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I said.
I was just about to pull out when the silver BMW approached, slowed, and then sped off. The sequence piqued my curiosity, so I turned off the engine and waited. It wasn’t long before the BMW reappeared, and the scene repeated itself.
I picked up my phone and hit speed-dial. Zack answered on the first ring. “Got a minute?” I said.
“For you, always,” he said. “Luckily for us the jury’s still out. Hey, I thought you were having tea with Zephyr.”
“We didn’t linger. At the moment, I’m parked outside Zephyr’s, playing hide and seek with Shawn O’Day.”
“Shawn the dancer that Gabe Vickers attempted to cold-cock?”
“That’s the one,” I said.
“I’ll bite,” Zack said. “What the hell’s going on?”
“I wish I knew,” I said.
After I sketched the events of the last half-hour, Zack whistled. “Weird,” he said. “So are you planning to spend the rest of the morning spooking Shawn?”
“No. I just talked to Angela. I’m going to April’s Place to give her a hand with lunch.”
“Maybe you can help me out,” Zack said. “I can’t get Chloe out of my mind. I called Nick this morning. Chloe slept well, and she and her aide were planning to go to April’s Place this morning to check out 21 Days of Christmas. Every time I think about how much Nick and Chloe were suffering on Sunday, I want to put my fist through a sheet of glass. When I talked to Nick, he sounded optimistic, but I’d welcome a first-hand report.”
“I’ll keep you posted.”
“Gotta go,” Zack said. “The jury’s coming back.”
“Are you going to win?”
“Not a hope in hell. But I get to come home to you, so all is not lost.”
* * *
—
UpSlideDown serves light fare, and Mieka’s comfortably well off clientele have always been happy to pay market price for freshly squeezed orange juice, quality tea and coffee, and baked goods still warm from the oven. April’s Place is the twin of UpSlideDown, but when Angela Greyeyes took over the management she saw the need for a substantial lunchtime meal. The communal arrangement she came up with was working. Angela and her staff made a nourishing soup every day, and neighbourhood women volunteered to have their names placed on a daily duty roster for bringing bannock.
When I arrived, Chloe and her aide were sitting at a craft table by the front window, hard at work. Chloe spotted me, flashed me a smile of recognition, and returned to gluing cotton balls on a cardboard snowman. After in
troducing myself to the aide and admiring Chloe’s handiwork, I joined Angela in the kitchen.
I checked the soup pot. “Hamburger stew,” I said. “One of my favourites.”
Angela’s laugh was deep and infectious. “That’s because it’s never the same twice,” she said. “Wash your hands and grab an apron.”
“Got it,” I said.
Angela and I loaded trays with dishes and cutlery and arranged condiments and butter and jam for the bannock on a low serving table. We’d just begun ladling out the soup when Chloe’s aide, Bronwyn, peeked into the kitchen. “We’d like to stay for lunch, if that’s okay,” she said.
“Everybody is welcome here,” Angela said.
Bronwyn slipped a twenty-dollar bill under the salt shaker on the serving table.
“You don’t have to do that,” Angela said.
“You’re giving Chloe a happy morning, and we want to do our part,” Bronwyn said.
Angela watched as Bronwyn walked back and joined Chloe at their craft table. When they were settled, she turned to me. “I try not to stick my nose into other people’s lives, but what’s the story there?”
After I gave her the brief history of Chloe’s life, Angela’s obsidian eyes filled with tears. “Sometimes life really sucks,” she said.
“It does,” I agreed. “Angela, there’s more. Chloe’s father wants to keep this private, but I think you should know that last Sunday Chloe was assaulted on her way to April’s Place. Her aide was on the phone dealing with an emergency, and Chloe left the house. The police picked her up on Winnipeg Street. She wasn’t able to tell them much except that a man had given her a ride. She was gripping two $50s in her hand and there was physical evidence that the man who picked her up had ejaculated on her—there was semen between her breasts and near her genitals.”
“Marking his territory,” Angela said. “Sick bastard.” Angela, her face grim, simply gazed at Chloe for a long time. Finally, in a voice harsh with anger, she said, “It’s better if she doesn’t understand what happened. That way, she’ll have a chance of getting over it.”
As we served the soup, Angela joked with the kids. When it was time to serve Chloe, she was tender. As she watched Chloe put butter and jam on her bannock and take her first taste of hamburger stew, Angela’s eyes were anxious. “Everything okay?” she said.
Chloe looked up at her. “Everything’s really nice,” she said. “Can I come back?”
Angela bit her lip. “As often as you want to.”
“That’s really nice of you,” Chloe said, and she went back to her hamburger stew.
CHAPTER
9
I hate flying. I’ve tried hypnotism, fearful flyer classes, three fingers of bourbon, and a variety of pharmaceuticals that guaranteed a carefree flight. Nothing worked. The flight from Regina to Saskatoon lasts forty-five minutes. Thursday morning, as I waited for the cab that would take Roy Brodnitz and me to the airport, my anxiety level was spiking. When the phone rang and Ben Bendure’s name appeared on the caller ID, I felt a stirring of hope. Ben was in his eighties. He might have decided he wasn’t up for a visit. But when he greeted me, his voice was robust and his spirits were high.
“Joanne, I’ve had a thought,” he said. “Instead of coming to my condo, why don’t we meet at Izaak Levin’s old house on 9th Street. It’s just around the corner from me.”
“I haven’t thought about the place in years,” I said. “I just assumed that after Izaak died, his sister cleared out all the art and sold it.”
“Then you’re in for a surprise,” Ben said. “That house is exactly the way it was the day Izaak walked out the door for the last time. Ellie Levin couldn’t bring herself to sell it, so an old colleague of Izaak’s lived in it till he passed on six months ago. Then Ellie died and left the place to me. I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with it ever since. Shall we meet there? I’m sure the contents of the place would intrigue Mr. Brodnitz.”
“I’m sure they would,” I said.
I’d just written down the address and said goodbye to Ben when the cab taking us to the airport pulled into my driveway. I patted Esme and Pantera, told them to behave, and picked up my bag. It was too late to turn back. The meter was ticking.
* * *
—
Roy had arranged for us to pick up a car at the Saskatoon Airport, and after the papers were in order and we were settled in our mid-sized Hyundai, he turned to me. “So where to?” he said.
“We have over an hour before we meet Ben, plenty of time to go down to the river and see where Sally lived when she and Stu were married, her studio on the riverbank, and the old Mendel Gallery where she died at the banquet celebrating her retrospective. Everything’s within a few blocks, so it’ll be an easy walk.”
Roy’s brow furrowed. “Could we grab something to eat first? I haven’t had breakfast.”
“I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee,” I said. “The Parktown Hotel is on the west bank of the river, a stone’s throw from where we want to be, and they have a restaurant.”
Roy and I sat at a booth overlooking the river. The sky was a piercing December blue, the river was only partially frozen, and the sun bounced off the flowing water and the still-forming ice.
After we’d ordered, Roy looked out the window at the river. “This really is beautiful,” he said.
“I agree,” I said. “To me, the South Saskatchewan River valley has always seemed like the heart of Saskatoon, and the province was smart enough to create a conservation authority to preserve its natural beauty, and make it people-friendly. There are over sixty kilometres of trails winding through the valley—great hiking in any weather. When we lived here, the kids and I came down to the river almost every weekend.”
Roy’s breakfast arrived, and after he’d made a good start on his bacon and eggs, his attention returned to me. “How long did you and your family live in Saskatoon?”
“It was only for a year. I’d been teaching sessionally at the university, but after my husband died, I needed a permanent job, and that meant finishing my Ph.D. My dissertation was on Andy Boychuk, who’d been a bright light in Saskatchewan politics. He was from Saskatoon, and his papers are in the university archives here. The kids and I had finally adjusted to life without Ian, and we didn’t want to be apart. We talked it over and through the university grapevine, I heard about a sabbatical house that was available July 1st. The owner was a Milton scholar who’d built the house himself. It was perfect for us. All the pieces just seemed to fall into place.”
Roy’s smile was wry. “Those words about pieces falling into place have a familiar ring,” he said. “Fate seems to be pushing you and me into the Jungian camp, Joanne.”
“I’ve been there for years,” I said. “But in retrospect, my decision to spend a year in Saskatoon really did seem like kismet because that was the year Sally and I got back together.”
“Were you able to pick up where you’d left off?”
“We made a start that summer, but we were both still wounded and feeling our way, and then Sally met a gorgeous, very young man and the two of them left for New Mexico. I didn’t see her again until she returned for the opening of her retrospective at the Mendel in December.
“That night it was clear something had changed. As soon as she spotted me in the crowd, Sally took my arm, said there was a painting we had to see together, and led me to it. It was of Izaak Levin and us at the lake. That summer we’d had crushes on him and the painting brought back all the hours we spent writing steamy stories about Izaak’s lips pressing themselves against our lips and his tortured body lowering itself onto ours.” I laughed. “We were never quite sure what happened after that, but those memories of unrequited lust did the trick. Sally and I were close again. She died in February, so we didn’t have long, but we made the most of our time together. After Christmas that year she made a trip to Vancouver, and she sent me a sweatshirt—bubble-gum pink with “I LOVE JO” written across the chest in sequins and bu
gle beads, and a note saying, ‘Now you’ve got it in writing.’ ”
Roy heard the pain in my voice. “Why don’t we just stay here and talk until it’s time to go to Ben’s?”
“That’s fine with me,” I said. “The house Sally and Stu lived in has been renovated and is pretty well unrecognizable, and the Mendel has been closed and replaced by the Remai Modern Art Gallery, but sometime you should see Sally’s studio. It’s still part of her estate. The university has a program that allows visiting artists to live and work there for a semester. I didn’t want to sell it until Taylor was old enough to decide whether she wanted to use it.”
“Has Taylor expressed any interest in the studio?”
“She’s never seen it.” I said. “Her plan to go to OCAD was in place for so long, we never talked about Saskatoon as a possibility. But it’s a great space. I haven’t seen it since I was there with Sally, but it’s worth checking out. I’ll call the university and see if we can stop by this afternoon.”
Roy motioned for the cheque. “Full day ahead,” he said.
“Right, and before we go I should prepare you for Izaak Levin’s house.”
* * *
—
From the outside, Izaak Levin’s was an unremarkable, well-maintained two-storey detached house with wood siding and a meandering front walk. Ben Bendure met us at the door. He wore his favoured gear: a long-pocketed khaki vest, a blue Oxford cloth shirt, comfortable slacks, and well-worn walking boots. His beard had always been neatly trimmed, but he’d let it grow full, and it was snowy and luxuriant. He remained physically fit, but I noticed that his ivory-handled cane was now a necessity, not an accessory.
“You’re looking dapper,” I said.
“In the pink,” he said agreeably, “as are you, Joanne. Marriage continues to agree with you.”
“It does,” I said. When I introduced Roy, Ben shook his hand warmly. “Welcome,” he said. “I hope Joanne warned you that you are about to enter a temple dedicated to Sally Love. Izaak Levin didn’t just collect works by Sally. Most of the art in this house is work by other artists, with Sally as their subject.”