What's Left Behind

by Gail Bowen

  I didn’t need to be an expert on body language to realize that my questions had spiked the level of discomfort in the room. People looked at their feet, at the window, at the door – anywhere but at me. There was an outbreak of throat-clearing and clothes-adjusting. “We’ve been through a lot together,” I said. “If you know something, tell me.”

  Finally, a man with whom I’d gone door-knocking during Zack’s campaign spoke. “People are suffering from referendum fatigue.”

  “The referendum is a week tomorrow,” I said. “We’re almost there. After Lee’s death, we were overwhelmed by people committed to making Lee’s dream a reality. That was less than three weeks ago. Now we’re in free fall. What changed?”

  Peggy turned her bright blue eyes towards the other volunteers sitting in the front row. “Is no one going to answer Joanne’s question?”

  Colleen Hennan had begun volunteering the day after Zack announced the referendum, and I had shepherded her through her first foray into door-to-door canvassing. She was a pretty blonde who worked as an on-air personality at a local radio station. After three minutes, I knew she didn’t need shepherding, but she was young, smart, and deeply committed to sustainable development and I’d stayed with her for an hour just for the pleasure of her company. She had a cat named George Michael and later that evening when we’d had a beer and bitch session with the volunteers at a local pub, she’d wowed us with a hula-hoop display.

  Colleen had a great smile, but she wasn’t smiling now. “Joanne, you know there were a number of volunteers who were drawn to the Yes side because of Lee Crawford. They saw Lee as an idealist – principled and uncompromising.”

  “She was principled and uncompromising,” I said.

  “I know that,” Colleen said gently. “I also know that we’re all human and that even the best of us have flaws. But many of the people who didn’t show up today haven’t been around long enough to have figured that out. They were Lee’s groupies. By joining up with her cause they felt they were part of something larger and more significant than they were. When the rumours started surfacing about her private life, they felt betrayed.”

  “But people got past the rumours,” I said. “We picked up dozens of volunteers.”

  “Then Bridie Doyle was kidnapped and they backed away again,” Colleen said. “Slater Doyle’s murder and Bridie’s seemingly well-timed return have made many of our volunteers feel that instead of being part of a shining quest, they’re involved in gutter politics and they don’t want any part of it.”

  I was livid, but my voice was surprisingly calm. “The people who’ve deserted us were hoodwinked by the oldest political trick in the book. When you can’t win on merits, muddy the waters with personal attacks. But the damage has been done.”

  I stood and moved nearer to the group. “I understand why the viciousness of this referendum has soured some of our volunteers, but it’s also distracting us from the real issue, which is exactly what our opponents want. In the eight days we have left, let’s go full force on social media and bring the focus back to the issues at the core of the debate. What kind of city do we want? What kind of relationship do we want between urban and rural neighbours? What kind of legacy do we want to leave for our children?

  “I have a list of contact information for all the people who volunteered to help us. We’ll be sending out mass emailings telling them exactly what I just told you, and tweets telling them what’s happening, but if each of you could take a page of names and contact the people on that list personally to ask them to come back to our campaign, we have a shot at winning. Remind the people you talk to that for us, this is still a shining quest and we want them to be part of it. Any questions?”

  There were none, but at least people were again looking me in the eye. “Thanks for coming,” I said. “As you pass by the kitchen, please take a box of doughnuts with you. I over-ordered.”

  I caught Colleen on her way out. “Don’t forget your doughnuts,” I said.

  “Oh, I won’t. I’m on my way to the station, so the doughnuts will find a good home. I’ll take some lists too.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And thank you for being frank about the problem we’re dealing with. It always helps to get things out in the open.”

  Peggy stayed behind with me to wash the coffee cups, and the ever-surprising Milo stayed to stack the dozens of chairs Brock and I had so optimistically set out the night before.

  When we were done, the three of us sat down with a box of doughnuts. I chose maple; Peggy chose Boston cream, but Milo wasn’t a doughnut man, so when I held out the box to him, he passed.

  “Well, you nailed it,” he said.

  “Now comes the hard part,” I said. “Making it happen. Time to go to the agency and tweak our ads for the final week. Are you two free?”

  “I have a day of phoning ahead,” Peggy said. “Joanne, you still have quite a stack of volunteer lists. I’ll take some. I’m sure Colleen is correct about the age of many of our no-shows, and the young tend to be very courteous to the elderly.”

  I handed Peggy three pages of names and numbers, and she took two more. I felt a rush of gratitude. “You really are the best,” I said. “I wish I could clone you.” I turned to Milo. “What do you think of the shining quest idea?”

  He shrugged. “It’s lame, but it will probably work. You’ve already done the one thing you had to do – you convinced the people at the meeting that you were in charge. People need to be led. Napoleon said, ‘A leader is a dealer in hope,’ and he got a 99.94 per cent vote in support of the constitution he drafted.”

  “Napoleon cooked those numbers, Milo. You know that.”

  Milo shrugged. “A win’s a win,” he said. “Let’s go see what the creative types at the agency can conjure up for us.”

  Three hours later, Milo and I left the agency with revised media and social media strategies. The last lap was underway.

  I called Zack, gave him Colleen Hennan’s assessment of the problem eroding our volunteer list, and we agreed her analysis was spot on. And then I called Warren Weber. During the past year, I had come to respect his clear vision and his ability to be objective. I needed both now.

  For the first time in a long time, Warren sounded buoyant. “Joanne! I was just about to call you. I have some good news, although, given the circumstances, good seems an inappropriate word. I just got off the phone with Asia Libke. The police have determined that the gun that killed Slater Doyle was the same gun that killed Lee. Simon was with us the weekend Slater Doyle was killed, and much of that time he was with a police officer going through proofs of the abandoned buildings he’d photographed.”

  The cloud that had been hanging over Simon since Angus found him washing the blood off himself in the barn had lifted. “I’m so relieved,” I said. “I know you’ve all been going through hell. This is such good news.”

  “And there’ve been other positive developments,” Warren said. “Simon has moved out of the boathouse. He spends the nights here at the cottage in his old room, and most evenings he has dinner with us.”

  “So Simon’s starting to connect again,” I said. “That’s wonderful.”

  “It is, isn’t it? And, although you’re too diplomatic to point this out, the fact that Simon was either with us or with a police officer when Slater Doyle was killed gives Simon an alibi. He’s finally in the clear. I can hardly believe that myself. I try not to get my hopes up with Simon, but it’s hard.” Warren’s voice grew hoarse. “I love him, Joanne.”

  “That’s half the battle,” I said.

  “It is,” Warren agreed, “but it’s only half.” I could hear the anger in his voice, and the determination. “From the beginning, I’ve believed Lee was targeted. Simon has been exonerated, but someone made my son a scapegoat, and I’m going to make certain whoever did that is punished. I have a stake in this, Joanne.”

  “We all do,” I said. “Warren, do you think the same person is behind everything that’s happened: killing
the birds, the murders, and Bridie’s abduction?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “I’ve believed that all along,” he said.

  “Where do we begin?”

  “With Lee,” Warren said. “She’s the starting point.” He paused. “Joanne, did you pass along the Harries-Crosby report on Lee to her sister?”

  “No. I thought about it, but Maisie’s been dealing with so much I didn’t want to add to the load. She’s grieving. She’s back at work, and she and Peter have moved out to the farm. They’re planning some major renovations on the house, and they have two babies on the way. There never seemed to be a good moment to ask Maisie if her sister had a love affair before she was twenty-two.”

  Out of nowhere the image of Lee’s bedroom flashed through my mind. The graceful oak four-poster bed; the pristine white chenille spread; and on the bedside table a brass lamp and a framed photograph of Colin Brokenshire, the man with whom Lee had chosen to spend every weekend during her undergraduate years.

  Colin was thirty years older than Lee. He would have been forty-eight when Lee started university, old enough to be her father. But he wasn’t her father. There was no blood connection. Colin had raised the Crawford twins because there was no one else. He had allowed each girl to find her own path. Maisie had chosen the law, and Lee had chosen agriculture. Had she also chosen Colin Brokenshire?

  “Are you still there, Joanne?” Warren’s question interrupted my reverie.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Something just occurred to me. Warren, could you get the people at Harries-Crosby to look into Colin Brokenshire’s romantic life from the time he adopted the girls in 1990 until he died in 2004. He was killed in a farm accident. It might be important for your investigators to find out as much as they can about the circumstances of the accident.”

  “I’ll get Harries-Crosby on it immediately,” Warren said. “Anything else?”

  “No, just please tell Simon and Annie how relieved and happy I am.”

  It was Isobel Wainberg’s birthday and Taylor was having dinner with Isobel’s family. The weather was pretty enough to barbecue, so I made a soy sauce and lemon pepper marinade that Zack and I liked but Taylor did not, poured it over pork chops, then picked up my list of drop-out volunteers, sat down at the kitchen table, and started making calls.

  Twelve of the people I called weren’t home or weren’t answering, so I left my contact information and a message urging whomever to get back to me so I could talk to them personally about rejoining the campaign. I had good luck with the eight people I talked to. Colleen had been right when she identified disillusionment as the reason we had lost volunteers. I laid out the reasons why the new bylaws were the best option for our city’s future growth, waved the shining crusade flag, and was able to convince all the people I reached to join us for the final week.

  By the time Zack got home, I’d finished my first list. With martinis mixed and salad made, I fired up the barbecue. A solid day’s work. We took our drinks to the terrace and settled in to enjoy the sunshine.

  I stretched out on the lazy lounge. “I think I could stay here forever,” I said. “How was your day?”

  “Debbie’s news about the same gun being used to kill both Lee and Slater has certainly alleviated some concerns. Have you had a chance to talk to Maisie?”

  “No, I called her office, but she was in a meeting, so I thought I’d try again tonight. I did talk to Warren.”

  “The Weber family must be over the moon,” Zack said.

  “More like ‘cautiously optimistic,’ ” I said. “I don’t think Warren’s experience with his late wife is ever far from his mind.”

  “That’s understandable,” Zack said.

  “He’s determined to find the person who framed Simon for Lee’s murder.”

  “Also understandable,” Zack said. “Debbie’s determined too. It may take time, but the police will track him or her down.” He sipped his drink. “Tell me more about the meeting this morning.”

  “It ended up being productive,” I said. “At least I hope so.” I didn’t minimize the significance of the dismal turnout at our volunteers’ meeting, but I did move quickly to more positive news: the steps we were taking to address the dropout problem and the media and social media campaign we’d be using during the week before the vote.

  Zack nodded approvingly. “Sounds like the Yes side is moving in the right direction.”

  “For the time being,” I said. “Zack, something else occurred to me, and I’m not certain how to deal with it or if I should be dealing with it at all.” Zack listened without comment as I told him about asking Warren to have Harries-Crosby look into Colin Brokenshire’s private life. When I finished, Zack still didn’t say a word.

  “You don’t approve,” I said.

  Zack leaned closer. “It’s not that. I’m just surprised that you feel the need to pursue this.”

  “Because it’s none of my business,” I said. “But, Zack, it is my business. I can’t take away Maisie’s pain, but she says that for her the hardest part of Lee’s death is that she can’t understand why it happened. I get that. For years after Ian died, I believed he died because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I agonized over the fact that if Ian had been on that particular stretch of highway two minutes earlier or two minutes later, he’d still be alive. I had a terrible time sleeping. I’d wake up in the night and read whatever book was at hand. One night it was an old poetry anthology. I leafed through and found a poem titled ‘Auto Wreck’ by Karl Shapiro. I can still recite that entire poem from memory, but the point Shapiro makes is that a death that’s seemingly random forces us to realize that no matter how much we know, we will never be able to answer the question ‘Who shall die?’ ”

  “You think finding the answer to why Lee was killed will help Maisie?”

  “I do.”

  Zack took my hand. “Then I’m with you all the way.”

  Wednesday morning Brock and I had a good run. When we got back to the condo, Brock took the dog’s leashes while I started my stretches. “Do you have a few minutes?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “It’s something personal,” Brock said. “I’ve been seeing a man I’m very attracted to. Margot’s met him and she likes him too.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  Brock met my gaze. “What’s always the problem?” he said. “Michael. He called this morning. He’s unhappy and he’s confused. He’s holding it together for Bridie, but he wanted me to come out to Lawyers’ Bay so we can talk.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I’m willing to help Michael through this, but I’m not going to get involved with him again. I’ve tried, but too much has happened. Derek, the new man in my life, is such a pleasure to be with – no drama, no miserable shared history, just two people finding out about each other and enjoying each other’s company.”

  “That’s the way it should be,” I said. “I’m happy for you, Brock. After the referendum is out of the way, bring Derek by for dinner so we can get to know one other.”

  “Actually, you already do know him, Jo. It’s Derek Fleischer. He teaches at the School of Journalism.”

  “We were on the union’s grievance committee together for three years,” I said. “He’s a terrific guy!”

  We stepped into the elevator. When it stopped at Brock’s floor, I said, “Could you give me a call if you decide to spend the night at the lake? You know how Pantera and Esme get if they have to hang around waiting.”

  Brock’s gaze was steady. “I’m not going to stay overnight, Joanne. I’ve already made that decision.”

  “Good call,” I said, and I pushed the button for our floor.

  Zack had a breakfast meeting, so he was dressed and waiting to say goodbye.

  He held out his arms to me. As always on breakfast meeting days, he was immaculate, and I was sweaty. “I’d better give you a rain check on that hug,” I said. “Brock and I ran hard today.”

&nbs
p; Zack wheeled closer and drew me to him. “I’ll take my chances,” he said. When we parted, Zack was beaming. “Great way to start the day,” he said.

  “The best,” I said. “And I have some nice news. There’s a new man in Brock’s life.”

  Zack cocked his head. “He’s finally over Michael?”

  “I hope so,” I said. “I know the new man. His name is Derek Fleischer, and he’s a professor at the School of Journalism. You’ll like him. But it’s strange, Derek looks enough like Michael to be his brother: same slender build, same blond spiked short hair, same deeply cleft chin, same ironic brown eyes.”

  Zack shrugged. “Most guys have a type they go for.”

  “I wasn’t the type you’d been going for.”

  “Nope, for forty-eight years I was barking up the wrong tree. Then you came along and my barking days were over.”

  After Taylor left for school, I sat down at the kitchen table with my phone and my lists and began trying to woo back more of the disaffected. Out of thirty-five people I talked to, five told me to go to hell and take the horse I rode in on with me and thirty agreed to show up the next day at the Noodle House.

  By eleven, it was time for a break. I made myself a cup of tea and took my phone and tea up to the roof garden. I was checking email on my phone when Harries-Crosby’s preliminary report on Colin Brokenshire arrived with a note telling me they’d send the full report and their file on the investigation of the accident as soon as both were complete.

  Harries-Crosby’s report began on July 1, 1990, Lee and Maisie’s eighth birthday and the day their parents died. The information in the report was based on interviews with neighbours in the community around the Brokenshire farm.

  The report was bare bones but informative. Fiona Brokenshire, Colin’s former wife, left her marriage on the day after Christmas 1990. Eleven months later, in November 1991, Colin and Bette Stevens were in a relationship. They were both thirty-eight. When Fiona divorced Colin in February 1993, everyone expected Colin and Bette would marry. They didn’t marry, but they continued to be a couple until 2000 when the relationship ended coolly but without drama. There was a general sense in the community that the affair had simply petered out. Until Colin’s death four years later, he and Bette remained friendly but distant, and Colin was not known to be involved with anyone else for the remainder of his life. I read the report again. It didn’t offer much, but it was going to have to be enough. I called Maisie. She was at the office and she had a half-hour free at one-thirty. I went home, ate a sandwich, and drove downtown to Falconer Shreve.