Deadly Appearances

by Gail Bowen

  ACCLAIM FOR GAIL BOWEN AND

  THE JOANNE KILBOURN MYSTERIES

  “Bowen is one of those rare, magical mystery writers readers love not only for her suspense skills but for her stories’ elegance, sense of place and true-to-life form.… A master of ramping up suspense”

  –Ottawa Citizen

  “Bowen can confidently place her series beside any other being produced in North America.”

  –Halifax Chronicle-Herald

  “Gail Bowen’s Joanne Kilbourn mysteries are small works of elegance that assume the reader of suspense is after more than blood and guts, that she is looking for the meaning behind a life lived and a life taken.”

  –Calgary Herald

  “Bowen has a hard eye for the way human ambition can take advantage of human gullibility.”

  –Publishers Weekly

  “Gail Bowen got the recipe right with her series on Joanne Kilbourn.”

  –Vancouver Sun

  “What works so well [is Bowen’s] sense of place – Regina comes to life – and her ability to inhabit the everyday life of an interesting family with wit and vigour.… Gail Bowen continues to be a fine mystery writer, with a protagonist readers can invest in for the long run.”

  –National Post

  “Gail Bowen is one of Canada’s literary treasures.”

  –Ottawa Citizen

  OTHER JOANNE KILBOURN MYSTERIES

  BY GAIL BOWEN

  The Nesting Dolls

  The Brutal Heart

  The Endless Knot

  The Last Good Day

  The Glass Coffin

  Burying Ariel

  Verdict in Blood

  A Killing Spring

  A Colder Kind of Death

  The Wandering Soul Murders

  Murder at the Mendel (U.S. ed., Love and Murder)

  Copyright © 1990 by Gail Bowen

  First published by Douglas & McIntyre Ltd., 1990

  First M&S paperback edition published 1996

  This edition published 2011

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Bowen, Gail, 1942-

  Deadly appearances : a Joanne Kilbourn mystery / Gail Bowen.

  eISBN: 978-0-7710-1322-5

  I. Title.

  PS8553.O8995D43 2011 C813′.54 C2011-900299-X

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.

  Published simultaneously in the United States of America by

  McClelland & Stewart Ltd., P.O. Box 1030, Plattsburgh, New York 12901

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011925596

  Cover image: Braendon Young/Dreamstime.com

  McClelland & Stewart Ltd.

  75 Sherbourne Street

  Toronto, Ontario

  M5A 2P9

  www.mcclelland.com

  v3.1

  To my mother-in-law,

  Hazel Wren Bowen,

  with love and gratitude

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  About the Author

  CHAPTER

  1

  For the first seconds after Andy’s body slumped onto the searing metal of the truck bed, it seemed as if we were all encircled by a spell that froze us in the terrible moment of his fall. Suspended in time, the political people standing behind the stage, hands wrapped around plastic glasses of warm beer, kept talking politics. Craig and Julie Evanson, the perfect political couple, safely out of public view, were drinking wine coolers from bottles. Andy’s family and friends, awkward at finding themselves so publicly in the place of honour, kept sitting, small smiles in place, on the folding chairs that lined the back of the stage. The people out front kept looking expectantly at the empty space behind the podium. Waiting. Waiting.

  And then chaos. Everyone wanted to get to Andy.

  Including me. The stage was about four and a half feet off the ground. Accessible. I stepped back a few steps, took a little run and threw myself onto the stage floor. It was when I was lying on that scorching metal, shins stinging, wind knocked out of me, chin bruised from the hit I had taken, that I saw Rick Spenser.

  There was, and still is, something surreal about that moment: the famous face looming up out of nowhere. He was pulling himself up the portable metal staircase that was propped against the back of the truck bed. His body appeared in stages over the metal floor: head, shoulders and arms, torso, belly, legs, feet. He seemed huge. He was climbing those steps as if his life depended on it, and his face was shiny and red with exertion. The heat on the floor of the stage was unbearable. I could smell it. I remember thinking, very clearly, a big man like that could die in this heat, then I turned and scrambled toward Andy. The metal floor was so hot it burned the palms of my hands.

  Over the loudspeaker a woman was saying, “Could a doctor please come up here?” over and over. Her voice was terrible, forlorn and empty of hope. As soon as I saw Andy, I knew there wasn’t any point in a doctor.

  Andy was in front of me, and I knew he was dead. He looked crumpled – all the sinew and spirit was gone. For the only time since I’d known him, he looked – no other word – insignificant.

  The winter after my husband died I had taken a course in emergency cardiac care – something to make me feel less exposed to danger, less at the mercy of the things that could kill you if you weren’t ready for them. As I turned Andy over on his back, I could hear the voice of our instructor, very young, very confident – nothing would ever hurt her. “I hope none of you ladies ever have to use this, but if you do, just remember ABC.” I was beginning to tremble. Airway. I took Andy’s chin between my thumb and forefinger and tilted his head back. His flesh felt clammy and flaccid, but the airway was clear. Breathing. I put my ear on his mouth, listened, and watched his chest for a sign of breathing. There was nothing. I was talking to myself. I could hear my voice, but it didn’t sound like me. “Four quick rescue breaths and then C. Check circulation.” I bent over Andy and pinched his nostrils shut. “Oh, I’m sorry, Andy. I’m sorry,” and I bent my mouth to cover his. ABC – but I never got to C.

  There was a smell on his lips and around his mouth. It was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Something ordinary and domestic, but there was an acrid edge to it that made me stop. Without forming the thought, I knew I had smelled danger.

  Then I looked toward the podium and saw Rick Spenser filling the glass from the
black Thermos. I didn’t hesitate. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold the glass. Water was splashing down his arms and on his belly, but he must have filled his glass because he raised it to his lips.

  Suddenly the world became narrow and focused. All that mattered now was to keep him from drinking that water. I opened my arms and threw myself at Rick Spenser’s knees. It was a surprisingly solid hit. He fell hard, face down. He must have stunned himself because for a few moments he was very still.

  The next few minutes are a jumble. The ambulance came. Spenser regained consciousness. As the attendants loaded Andy on the stretcher, Spenser sat with his legs stretched in front of him like the fat boy in the Snakes and Ladders game. When I walked over to the podium to pick up Andy’s speech portfolio, my foot brushed against his.

  In the distance I could hear sirens.

  That last day of Andy Boychuk’s life had started out to be one of the best. In June he had been selected leader of our provincial party, and we had planned an end-of-summer picnic so that people could eat, play a little ball and shake hands with the new leader of the Official Opposition. Simple, wholesome pleasures. But in politics there is always subtext, even at an old-fashioned picnic, and that brilliant August day had enough subtext for a Bergman movie.

  Nomination fights can be intense, and Andy’s had been particularly fierce because odds were good that we would form the next government. The prize had been worth having. And for more than a few people in the park that day, watching the leadership slip into someone else’s hands had been a cruel blow. Soothing those people, making it possible for them to forgive him for winning, was Andy’s first priority at the picnic, but there was another matter too, and this one was going to need skills that weren’t taught in Political Science 100.

  For years, there had been unanswered questions about Andy Boychuk’s domestic life. His wife, Eve, was odd and reclusive. There had been a dozen rumours about her strange behaviour, and now that Andy was leader we had to put those stories to rest.

  So behind the homespun pleasures of concession stands selling fresh-baked pies and corn on the cob or chances on quilts and amateur oil paintings, there was a deadly serious purpose. That day we had to begin to lay to rest Andy Boychuk’s ghosts. It wasn’t going to be easy. I had driven into the park earlier that morning to check things out. Two hard-muscled young women had been stringing a sign across the base of the truck bed we were using as a stage. It said, “Andy Boychuk Appreciation Day,” and when I saw it, I crossed my fingers and said, “Let it work. Oh, please, let it be perfect.”

  For a while it was. The day was flawless: still, blue-skied, hot, and by noon, the fields of summer fallow we were using for parking areas were filled, and we had to ask the farmer who owned them to let us use more. All afternoon the line of cars coming down the hill continued without a break. In the picnic area, the food was hot, the drinks were cold, and the music drifted, pleasant and forgettable, from speakers hung on the trees. Everybody was in a good mood.

  Especially Andy. On that August day so full of politics and sunshine and baseball, he was as happy as I had ever seen him.

  I’d watched him play a couple of innings in the slo-pitch tournament, and he’d been sensational. He’d come off the field sweating and dirty and triumphant.

  “The man can do no wrong today,” he’d said, beaming. “It’s never too late, Jo. I could still be a major-leaguer.”

  And I had laughed, too. “Absolutely,” I said, “but there are five thousand people here today who want to hear this terrific speech I wrote for you, and –”

  “And I have to sacrifice a career with the Jays to your vanity.” He grinned and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “That’s about the way I see it,” I said. “Remember that line from your acceptance speech about how it’s time to put the common good above individual ambition? Well, your chance is here. There’s one bathroom in this entire park that has a functioning hot-water tap, and Dave Micklejohn said that at three-thirty he’ll be lurking there with a fresh shirt for you, so you can get up on that stage and give the people something to tell their grandchildren about.” I looked at my watch. “You’ve got five minutes. Forget the Blue Jays. Think of the common good. The bathroom’s just over the hill – a green building behind the concession stands.”

  Andy laughed. “Okay, but you just wait till next year.”

  “You bet,” I said, and I stood and watched as he ran up the hill, a slight figure with the slim hips and easy grace of an athlete. At the top, he stopped to talk to a man. I was too far away to see the man’s face, but I would have recognized the powerful boxer’s body anywhere. Howard Dowhanuik had been premier of our province for eleven years, leader of the Official Opposition for seven, and my friend for all that time and more. He was the man Andy succeeded in June, and there was something poignant and symbolic about seeing the once and future leaders, silhouetted against the brilliant blue of the big prairie sky. Even from a distance, it was apparent that their talk was serious and emotional, but finally the crisis seemed resolved, and Howard patted Andy’s shoulder. Then, in the blink of an eye, Andy disappeared over the top of the hill, and Howard was walking toward me, smiling.

  “You look happy,” I said.

  “I’ve got every reason to be,” he said. “I’m with you. The weather’s great. I managed to get over to the stage in time to hear the fiddlers and I got away before those little girls started dancing. What is it that they call themselves?”

  “The Tapping Toddlers,” I said, “and I doubt if they chose the name. My guess is that the parents who let those kids wear hot-pink satin pants and sequinned bras are the ones who came up with it. Sometimes I don’t think we’ve come very far.”

  “Sometimes I agree with you.” He shrugged. “Come on, Jo. It’s too nice a day to despair of the human race. Let’s go over and watch the chicken man. I’ll buy you an early supper.”

  I groaned. “I’ve been eating all day, but I guess the damage is already done. As my grandmother always said, ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’ “And so we walked over to the barbecue pit across the road from the stage. A man from the poultry association was grilling five hundred split broilers. Up and down he moved, slapping sauce on the chickens with a paintbrush, reaching across the grill to adjust a piece that didn’t seem positioned right, breaking off a burning wing tip with his thick, callused fingers.

  Howard’s old hawk’s face was red from the sun and the heat, but he was rapt as he watched the poultry man’s progress.

  “Jo, the trouble with politics is that it doesn’t leave you time to enjoy the little things. Look at this guy – I’ll bet he’s cooked two thousand chickens today. He’s a real artist. Go ahead and smile, but see, he knows just when to turn those things. That’s what I’m going to enjoy now that I’m out of it – the simple pleasures.”

  “Going to find time to smell the roses, are you?” I said, laughing. “Howard, you’re a fraud. Two days ago you told me that anybody who doesn’t care about politics is dead from the neck down. I don’t think you’re quite ready to trade the back rooms for a bag of briquettes.”

  Across the road, the entertainment had ended and the speeches had begun. The loudspeakers squawked out something indecipherable. In the field in front of the stage, the crowd roared, and the man of simple pleasures was suddenly all politics again.

  “Whoever that is onstage has really got them going,” he said.

  I linked my arm through his. “Are you going to miss all this?” I asked, indicating the scene around us.

  “Yeah, of course I am.”

  “You could change your mind and run again, you know, or just stay around behind the scenes. Andy could use somebody who knows how to keep things from unravelling.”

  “No, I wasn’t cut out to be an éminence grise – lousy fringe benefits.”

  The man from the poultry association was taking broilers off the grills now, grabbing the tips of the drumstic
ks between his thumb and index finger and giving his wrist enough of a flick to propel the chickens into an aluminum baking pan he held in his other hand.

  “How about you, Jo? Have you thought any more about running? That guy who won Ian’s seat in the by-election is about as dynamic as a cow fart.”

  “Not a chance, Howard. I’m happy right where I am. I think I’m over Ian’s death. The kids are great, and I finally have some time to do what I want to do. This year off from teaching is going to be heaven. And, you know, the speech writing I’m doing for Andy is going to fit in perfectly. It’ll give me some good examples for my dissertation. If I get it done in time for your birthday, I’ll give you the first copy. Want to read a scholarly treatise called ‘Saskatchewan Politics: Its Theory and Practice’?”

  “God, no. I might find out that I’ve been doing it wrong all along.” He looked at his watch. “Time for the main event. Let’s grab a plate of chicken. Incidentally, guess who I strong-armed into giving the warm-up speech before Andy comes out.”

  “His wife?”

  Howard winced. “I’m not a miracle worker, Jo. Although Eve is here today. I saw her in that little trailer thing they’ve got in back of the stage for Andy’s family and the entertainment people.”

  “How did she look?”

  “The way she always looks when she gets dragged to one of these things – like someone just beamed her down. Anyway, you’re wrong. Eve isn’t introducing Andy. Guess again.”

  “Not Craig Evanson.”

  Howard pointed at the stage across the road and smiled. “There he is at the podium.”

  “You underestimate yourself,” I said. “You are a miracle worker, especially after that terrible interview last night on Lachlan MacNeil’s show. I can’t believe Andy isn’t more worried about it. I tried to talk to him, you know, but he says people will forget about it in a week, and besides, since everybody knows what MacNeil’s like, no one’ll take it seriously.”