What's Left Behind

by Gail Bowen

  When it came to making decisions about the spiritual aspects of the service, Chesney was firm. Maisie wanted a service that reflected the meaning of Lee’s life, and in Chesney’s view it was essential that both the music and the readings should indicate that at the time of her death Lee was still searching.

  Her insistence surprised me. “I assumed that since Lee played the organ for church services, she’d found her answers,” I said.

  Maisie laughed. “Colin played organ there for thirty years and he was a confirmed Darwinist. You know those metal fish signs some people have on their cars to show that they’re Christians? Colin had a fish sign on his old Buick, except his fish had legs to show that it was evolving. He was a regular at Wesley United because he liked playing the organ and he believed in community. It was the same for Lee.”

  Chesney snapped her laptop shut. “So Joanne and I will look into the music and readings. The ladies in the community are taking care of the lunch after the service, and Bobby Stevens called to let me know that a group of his friends are arranging for extra chairs and loudspeakers so people who can’t find a place in the church can at least hear what’s going on inside.”

  “How’s Bobby doing?” I said.

  “He didn’t say, and I’ve learned not to ask.”

  “Very wise,” I said.

  Maisie picked up her napkin and began pleating it. “I called Bette Stevens to let her know that we were putting together some preliminary plans for the service. She reminded me that around here families make a memory board with photos of the person they’ve lost so people can reminisce during the reception. Bette says she has albums full of pictures of Lee and me, and she invited me to come over and choose the photos I wanted to include.” Maisie’s eyes found mine. “Jo, I had an appointment with my OB/GYN earlier this morning.”

  I felt a sting of anxiety. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine. The babies are doing well and so am I, but Dr. Vollett says I should do what I can to minimize the level of stress in my life. I’m not ready to look at pictures of Lee yet.”

  “You won’t have to,” I said. “I’ll call Bette as soon as I get home.”

  “Thank you.” Maisie used her pleated napkin to wipe off a drop of lemonade on the Formica table. “Jo, yesterday was Bette’s birthday. Lee and I have always taken her out for lunch. This time I didn’t even call. Please tell her how sorry I am. There’s just been so much.”

  Bette had been cordial when I called to ask if I could look through the photos for the memory book with her. She’d suggested I come for afternoon tea, so my day was taking shape.

  Peggy, George Sawchuk, and Ernest Beauvais were waiting at the cafeteria door when I arrived at City Hall. George offered his hand, and I took it. “I’m so glad you were free for lunch today,” I said.

  “Peggy felt I needed to be with other people.”

  “Was she right?”

  George smiled. “Isn’t she always?”

  I turned to Ernest. “You’re a welcome surprise.”

  “I’m a big fan of organ meat,” Ernest said. And with that, we picked up trays and joined the line of liver lovers.

  The half-portion of the liver and onions lunch cost $6.75 and the portions were generous – three slices of liver, four slices of bacon, a scoop of fried onions, a scoop of mashed potatoes, a scoop of coleslaw, and a scoop of homemade gravy.

  After we found a table and unloaded our trays, George’s eyes scanned the room. “This was a good idea,” he said. It seemed he was relaxing, but the next second he froze. I followed the direction of his gaze. Mansell Donnelly and Piper Edwards had arrived at an empty table near us. Piper had just taken her plate from her tray when Mansell spotted us and whispered something to Piper. She put her plate back on her tray and they went off in search of another table.

  “I guess Mansell was afraid sitting close to me would put them off their lunch,” I said.

  It had been an idle comment, but it seemed to strike a nerve with George. He sighed heavily and picked up his fork. “I wish I understood what’s going on with Mansell.”

  I stirred the gravy into my potatoes. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’m sure Mansell was just following orders. Quinn Donnelly sees politics as a blood sport and I’m on the wrong side.”

  George lowered his voice. “It isn’t you,” he said. “It’s me.”

  I looked at him closely. “But you were friends. Yesterday I saw a photograph of Colin, Mansell, and you when you were teenagers. You looked like you were having a lot of fun.”

  “We did have a lot of fun. For years we were inseparable, but that was before Colin died. Since then, Mansell’s been avoiding me.”

  “Why?”

  Pain knifed George’s features. “Joanne, it’s very hard for me to talk about that time, especially now that Lee’s gone too.” He stared at his plate. “At least they’re together now.”

  I leaned across the table. “I spent the morning with Maisie, planning Lee’s service. Maisie wants people to leave the church understanding why they have to fight for what Lee and Colin Brokenshire believed in. We’re all heartsick about Lee’s death, but we have to carry on.”

  Ernest covered George’s hand with his own. “My people believe that after four days, we can’t cry for the one we lost. In order to help the spirit undo its ties with us, we have to stop crying and start living. Old friend, it’s time to let Lee go so she can be at peace.”

  “I know you’re right. It’s just that I can’t stop remembering how happy they were.” George stared at his plate for a long time. Finally, he picked up his fork and began to eat. It was a silent meal. There was nothing more to say.

  Peggy and I stood together on the lawn in front of City Hall watching our lunch companions walk down Victoria Avenue to their cars. “Not the liveliest lunch we’ve ever had,” Peggy said.

  “No, but at least George wasn’t alone,” I said. “Peggy, do you have a few minutes? I have to be at Bette Stevens’s at three, but it’s only one-thirty, and there are some things I’d like to talk about.”

  “Of course, but let’s go to my place and sit in the rose garden. We’ll be more comfortable there, and roses have a way of putting problems into perspective.”

  “I could use a dose of perspective right about now,” I said.

  The sun was peeking out by the time I arrived at Peggy’s pretty bungalow. She was sitting on an old-fashioned porch swing and when she saw me she leapt up and I followed her down the path that led to her backyard. Peggy gardened seriously, and from the first crocus of spring to the last October marigold, her garden celebrated colour and scent. June was the month for roses in our part of the world, and even before we came into the yard, the strong, rich, complex aroma of damasks filled the air. Peggy had an English rose garden, a riot of pinks and reds where something was always budding or blooming.

  “It’s so tranquil here,” I said. “And so beautiful.”

  “Make yourself at home,” she said. “Can I get you anything?”

  “After that lunch?” I said. “No, thanks. Let’s just talk.”

  “Fine with me,” Peggy said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “For starters, you can tell me what happened at the CPG meeting after I left.”

  Peggy shook her head. “I’ve been through it with the police, and over it in my mind a dozen times. That was such a terrible morning – all those strange currents and jagged edges. The fact that Lee was murdered just hours later puts everything into an even more sinister light. I keep thinking that I must have missed something or that there was something I could have done …”

  My pulse raced. “Do you think someone at the meeting killed her?”

  Peggy was clearly distressed. “I don’t know. People behaved badly. Things were said.” She fell silent.

  “When I was there, Piper Edwards seemed to be leading an attack,” I said. “She was merciless.”

  “And that continued,” Peggy said. “Piper kept ham
mering away at Lee about how taking down her video before it had ‘maximum impact’ would be a betrayal of everyone in CPG. Lee tried to explain that she wanted to protect CPG from the potential fallout of personal attacks on her, but she didn’t get far before Piper cut her off. Piper’s assault was personal: it was ugly, and it was very effective. I’d say that at the beginning, the majority of people at the meeting supported Lee, but when Piper talked about the individual’s need to sacrifice for future generations, I could feel the wind shifting. So could Lee.”

  “She knew she was beaten?” I said.

  “She did,” Peggy said. “George tried to pour oil on the troubled waters. He said there were many struggles ahead and if we were going to prevail we had to respect one another and work side by side.”

  I smiled. “He’s a wise man.”

  “Not everyone shares your opinion. That young man with the ponytail who attacked George when you were still at the meeting waded in again. He said he wasn’t about to take advice from someone whose father spent all his time losing lawsuits.” George tried to respond, but the young man shouted him down.

  “The situation was out of hand. Piper moved towards Lee, and she was furious. Bobby stopped her, and then he announced that the meeting was over and asked Ernest to say a prayer. After Ernest finished, everyone went his or her separate ways. I didn’t want Lee to feel that she was without allies, so I stayed behind. Bobby was with her. I congratulated them on their engagement, admired Lee’s ring, said that political conflicts blow over but love endures, and then I left.

  “My perennials needed some tending, so I took care of them and started supper. That’s when you called to tell me that Lee had been killed.”

  “Peggy, do you think it’s possible Piper murdered Lee?”

  “I don’t number myself among those who believe that in a desperate moment, we’re all capable of murder,” Peggy said.

  “Neither do I,” I said. “But Piper is known to have a problem with controlling her temper, and she was already fuming when she arrived at the meeting. She’d just found out that Lee was marrying the man she wanted, and she believed Lee was on the verge of sinking the referendum campaign.”

  “I hope you’re wrong,” Peggy said.

  “So do I. Piper has so much to offer.” I checked my watch. “Peggy, I have another question. Do you know what’s going on between Mansell Donnelly and George Sawchuk? I’m sure you noticed that Mansell wouldn’t sit near us today. I assumed it was because Quinn had warned him that I was persona non grata, but George told me Mansell’s been avoiding him since Colin Brokenshire died.”

  Peggy frowned. “That’s sad. Those three were such good friends. I would have thought the tragedy would have drawn Mansell and George closer, but the workings of the human heart are a mystery. I guess Mansell still feels guilty …” The sentence drifted off, incomplete.

  “Why would Mansell feel guilty?” I said.

  Peggy looked baffled. “I assumed one of the twins would have told you by now,” she said. “Mansell was driving the truck that killed Colin. I’m not sure of the details. All I know is that it was a late harvest, and Mansell and Bette were helping Colin get his crop off before the weather changed. The truck Mansell was driving was one of those heavy-duty farm vehicles. It was after dark, and everyone was tired. The police investigated, of course, but it was clearly just one of those terrible agricultural accidents. Kostya told me once that Mansell was never the same after that night. I guess seeing George brings back painful memories for Mansell.”

  “It’s been eleven years,” I said.

  Peggy’s eyes met mine. “You know what they say, Joanne. ‘Time heals the wound, but no amount of time can erase the scar.’ ”

  CHAPTER

  10

  Until the last decades of the twentieth century in Saskatchewan, it was not uncommon to see millions of dollars’ worth of equipment in a grain farmer’s yard and the farmer’s family living in a house that had been built fifty years earlier but unimproved, except for an occasional lick of paint. The feminist movement changed many things. Farm wives became recognized as farmers in their own right, and their contribution to the success of working farms was reflected in the handsome new farm homes that sprang up across the prairie, like mushrooms after a three-day rain.

  Bette Stevens was a striking example of the new breed of female farmers. She met me at the front door of her home wearing smartly fitted jeans, a classic white chambray shirt, and a pair of western boots with a pattern of hearts and scrolls tooled into their buttery leather.

  “I’m so glad we could arrange this,” she said. “Maisie’s fortunate to have you.”

  “It’s a terrible time for everybody,” I said. “How’s Bobby?”

  Bette’s lips tightened. “He’s tough. He’ll make it.”

  “And he has you,” I said.

  She looked at me questioningly, as if weighing my words. “That’s true,” she said finally. “Bobby has me. Now come inside and let me show you around.” As she led me into the kitchen, I noticed Bette was still moving carefully. I didn’t mention her sciatica. She’d made it clear that the Stevens family handled its pain privately.

  The kitchen was a comfortable room with an open fireplace, a well-used maple table and chairs, state-of-the-art appliances, and a generous working space. It was a kitchen designed for a dedicated cook who liked people to gather while she worked. I could easily imagine Bette there teaching the Crawford twins the intricacies of making Saskatoon berry jelly.

  The family room, too, was a welcoming space, filled with overstuffed and comfortable furniture and a very large big-screen TV. “Colin wasn’t a huge fan of TV,” Bette said, “but he and the girls used to come over and watch Riders games and the Stanley Cup.”

  “Sounds like you and your families had a lot of fun together,” I said.

  “We did,” she said. “But that’s over now.”

  Her bleak words underscored the magnitude of the losses the two families suffered. Bette looked at me searchingly. “You’re suffering too,” she said. “Let me take you to the place where I’ve found solace during these last terrible days.”

  The room she led me to was adjacent to the family room. As soon as I stepped through the French doors, I felt the bloom of peace. Everything in the simply furnished room was white, but the effect was soothing rather than sterile. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on a manicured emerald lawn and a pond in which six swans glided serenely.

  The scene was, quite literally, breathtaking. “That’s incredible,” I said. “How do you keep swans in southern Saskatchewan?”

  Bette winked. “Sorcery,” she said.

  “Well, it’s benevolent sorcery,” I said. “I could look at those swans forever.”

  “I could too,” Bette said. “I built this house the year after my husband died. Rob and I had been happy in the old place, but it was full of memories and I wanted to start afresh. I had a farm to run and a son to raise. I needed a place where I could find peace and remember that there was beauty in the world.” Bette’s laugh was low and warm. “As you can imagine, those swans were the talk of the neighbourhood. Everyone except Colin thought I’d lost my mind.”

  “From what I’ve heard, Colin would have been supportive.”

  Bette’s face softened. “He was a rock. Joanne, I know you and I have a difficult task to tackle, but I suspect you haven’t had many peaceful interludes lately. I’ve made us strawberry shortcake. Let’s just enjoy the shortcake and the swans for a while before we look through the albums.”

  “I’d like that,” I said.

  When Bette stood, my eyes were drawn again to her boots. “Bette, I know this sounds strange, but would you mind telling me where you got your boots? Maisie has a birthday coming up. Her first birthday without Lee is going to be very difficult. It just occurred to me that since she’s moving back to the farm, a pair of western boots might be a thoughtful gift.”

  Bette’s face flushed with pleasure.
“Boots would be a perfect gift,” she said. “And these are beautiful, aren’t they? But I’m afraid the only information I have about them is that they were specially made. They were a gift from a friend – a very dear friend.” For a moment she seemed lost in memory, then she shook her head impatiently. “The tea isn’t going to pour itself,” she said. “I won’t be long. Have a look around. There are some photographs in the family room you might find interesting now that you’re getting to know us.”

  The mantel above the fireplace in the family room was crowded with birthday cards. Most were either greeting-card sentimental or greeting-card humorous, but Mansell’s card for his sister was a photograph of her swans and the message inside was handwritten and affectionate. Interestingly, Quinn Donnelly hadn’t signed her sister-in-law’s card. I did a quick check, and Quinn hadn’t sent a separate card. Clearly the sisters-in-law were not bosom buddies.

  A solid oak credenza held a number of framed family photos, and I took my time looking at the photographs. The largest was a portrait of Bette and her now-deceased husband, Rob Stevens, exiting the church on their wedding day. A handsome couple, they glowed with vitality and hope. Five years later, Rob suffered an embolism while he was combining. Lee told me that Bette found Rob when she drove out to see why he was late for dinner. There were other photos: of Bette with Bobby as he received sports awards and graduated from high school and university.

  However, the photo that drew my eye was of Bette and her son with Colin Brokenshire and the Crawford twins. The children looked to be about ten, not thrilled at having their picture taken, but obviously easy in one another’s company. The photo had been taken during harvest, and Bette, Colin, and the children, surrounded by hay bales and pumpkins, were bathed in the warm glow of a September sun. I was holding the photograph when Bette came back into the family room carrying the tray with the shortcake and a pitcher of iced tea. She looked over my shoulder at the photo. “I love that one,” she said. Her voice broke.