Deadly Appearances

by Gail Bowen

  We were both laughing. Howard wiped his eyes. “You should have heard her on the way home in the car – but not a peep out of her at the dinner. I’ll give her that. She was always the gracious lady in public. Not like …”

  “Not like Eve.”

  “No, not like Eve.” His voice had a familiar edge of exasperation.

  For a while we reminisced about old times, then Howard turned the radio on. We listened to it and gossiped till Howard pulled up in front of the house on Eastlake Avenue. The place was still standing, and I sighed with relief.

  “All’s well in Jo’s universe?” Howard asked.

  “No,” I said, “but I’ll survive. What flight are you taking tomorrow?”

  “The 1:30 – gets you into Toronto in time for the rush hour along the 401 – all the charms of metropolitan life Marty’s always talking about.”

  “Need a lift to the airport?” I said.

  “Yeah,” Howard said, “that would be nice.”

  “Well,” I said.

  “Well,” he said, gently mocking.

  “Well,” I said, “I’d better get in there before the boys start flicking the porch light on and off at us.”

  Howard reached over and covered my hand with his. In the moonlight his face was silvery grey – like an image on black and white television. “I’m really going to miss you. Ian was a lucky man.”

  I leaned over and kissed his cheek. The smell of his body was familiar and comforting – Scotch and lemony aftershave. “I’m going to miss you, too, Marty’s a lucky woman. Damn it, everybody’s leaving me.” I grabbed my bag and ran up the stairs before he could see I was crying.

  The kids had managed fine. The house was clean enough. The tuna casserole I’d left for dinner the first night was in the refrigerator next to the freezer container of chili I’d left for the second night. There were two pizza boxes and a half-dozen Big Gulp containers in the garbage, but the boys were showered and in bed watching M*A*S*H reruns and being civil to one another, so I counted my blessings. I sat on Peter’s bed and watched the end of the program with them. When it was over, I filled them in on Mieka’s new house, showered and got into my robe. I was careful to look the other way when I passed Mieka’s room. I went downstairs, put on the kettle for tea, changed my mind, pulled out a lemon and some honey and made myself a hot lemon and rum. Just as I poured the hot water into the mug, the phone rang.

  Mieka, I thought, or Howard, knowing I was having a hard time. But it wasn’t either of them. The voice was male and familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  “Joanne, do you use smoked or barbecued salmon in that mousse?”

  “Whatever’s cheaper.”

  “What a sensible woman you are. Sorry to call so late, but I’m having people in for breakfast and I’m not a morning person.” I still couldn’t place that voice. Keep him talking.

  “It bakes two hours. You’ll be up all night.”

  “I’m setting the alarm so I can lumber out of bed and grab it out of the oven. Although why I’m going to all this trouble for that preening cow of a minister is beyond me.”

  That sleepy, intimate voice that curled around words with such affection – “Rick. Rick Spenser. I’m sorry. I just didn’t make the connection with your voice for a minute.”

  “Joanne, I’m the one who should apologize. Damn. I hate people who assume you know who they are. Forgive me for being a narcissistic ass. Let me start again. How was your day?”

  “We were on safer ground with the mousse. My day was lousy. I just left my beautiful little girl alone with her new housemate who is also her boyfriend. And Howard Dowhanuik, who is, I guess, my best male friend in the world, just told me he’s moving to Toronto to teach a class at Osgoode Hall.”

  The voice on the other end of the line was suddenly alert and professional. “Is that for public consumption?”

  “I don’t see why not. Classes start this week, and he’s leaving tomorrow. I feel like Little Orphan Annie.”

  “Then I’m glad I called. I wouldn’t dream of trying to fill Mieka’s place, but do you think I could try out for temporary status as your best male friend?”

  I laughed. “Well, they’re not exactly standing in line here.”

  “I warn you, Joanne. I take my obligations as a friend seriously.”

  I took Rick at his word, and brought him up to date on everything that had happened since the last time we’d talked. At the end of it all I said, “That business about the sister really threw me. There’s something terrible about discovering people’s secrets. It’s such a violation. If you want out, I’ll understand.”

  “No, no, certainly not.” He sounded as if he meant it. “Joanne, if I were there with you, I’d open a vein and become your blood brother, but since I’m in Ottawa, I’ll do what our senators do. I’ll swear an oath holding onto my testicles.”

  We both laughed, the balance between us restored. “I think that was the Roman senators, not our guys.”

  “Well, whoever held onto whatever … I, Rick Spenser, do solemnly swear to be friends with Joanne Kilbourn.”

  “Till death us do part?” I asked, laughing.

  “Till death us do part,” he repeated, but he didn’t sound as if he were laughing.

  CHAPTER

  12

  The next three weeks went by in a haze of activity. Angus hated his grade-eight teacher on sight, but we decided dealing with her would be character-building. Peter made the football team, and I started to research Andy’s biography.

  We all missed Mieka.

  Our routine was the same as ever: a morning run with the dogs, breakfast, school, an early supper, ball, homework, bed. Saturday mornings we went to the Lakeshore Club. I added another fifteen minutes of laps to my time in the pool because I didn’t have Mieka to gossip with in the dressing room any more.

  Life went on.

  Before I opened my eyes on the first morning in October I knew it was raining. The air that came in through my bedroom window smelled of wet leaves and cold. I turned on the bedside lamp, and it made a comforting pool of yellow light in the room. I switched on the radio and a woman’s voice, chuckling and ersatz matronly, said it was raining cats and dogs in Regina and Saskatoon. Raining on me and Mieka alike – it seemed like a good sign. I hollered at the boys to hit the showers and went downstairs. The kitchen door had blown open in the night and the floor was wet and cold on my bare feet. I coaxed the dogs out for a run in the rain, turned on the coffee and picked up the telephone. It was 7:00 a.m. If I called right away, I could catch Dave Micklejohn at home. He answered on the first ring.

  “Dave, have you eaten yet?”

  “No, I was just dropping an egg in to poach.”

  “Well, don’t poach. Let me get the kids fed and off to school and I’ll take you out for breakfast.”

  “Jo, it’s so good to hear your voice. How about the clubhouse at the Par Three in half an hour? There won’t be a soul there today, and they make great cinnamon buns.”

  “Sounds good to me, but make it an hour,” I said, but he’d already hung up. Dave hates to use the telephone.

  The Par Three clubhouse is the best-kept secret in the south end. It’s a queer-looking six-sided building with lots of glass so you have the sense of being on the greens when you eat. It’s a mom-and-pop operation – on one side of the building Mom takes greens fees and rents clubs; on the other, Pop runs a little restaurant that offers breakfasts and sandwiches. Mom’s and Pop’s real names are Edythe and Al. I know this only because they have twin leather belts that have their names burned cowboy style into the backs. Why they bought the Par Three is a mystery. They are people who do nothing to encourage the loyalty or affection of their clientele. However, they have pride in what they do – Edythe’s greens are always as perfectly manicured as the flawless ovals of her mauve nails, and Al’s baking is the best in the city.

  When I pulled in behind the clubhouse, Dave’s Bronco, as shiny and red as a Halloween apple, was the only
vehicle in the parking lot. Through the window, I could see Dave behind the counter pouring coffee. It didn’t surprise me that he was on terms of trust with Al and Edythe. Dave was finicky, too. He handed me a cup as soon as I walked in the door.

  “Saw you coming, Jo, and thought you could use some warming.” He put his hands on my shoulders, stood back and looked at me critically. “You’re looking weary.”

  “Dave, you always tell all of us that – I’m fine, honestly.”

  The window over the table Dave directed me to was open and the table was wet with rain but the air smelled so fresh that I left the window open. The rain splashed down on the empty golf course and the sky was grey with clouds, but we were safe in the warmth, and it felt good.

  We ate our cinnamon buns and talked small talk – news about my kids, gossip about the leadership convention, which had been set for December. Craig Evanson had announced the day before, and already was the odds-on favourite. Apparently Andy had been right about how long people would remember his dismissive comment about Craig. When we finished eating, Dave brought the coffee-pot over from the counter, filled our cups, put it back, sat down again and looked steadily at me.

  “Well, Jo, what can I do for you?”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be too hard, Dave. I just need some information. It’s about that auburn-haired woman you were talking to after Andy’s funeral – you know, the mystery woman that the paper got such a great shot of the day Andy died.”

  Dave’s eyes shifted toward the window. “Look at that bird out there in the parking lot, Jo. Can you tell what it is from here? It looks like a little Hungarian partridge, but it’s hard to tell with all that rain.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  Dave didn’t look at me. He kept his eyes focused on the parking lot where the bird was hopping through the water that was pooling in a little depression near my car.

  We sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping our coffee, waiting. Finally, he shrugged. He seemed to have made up his mind about something. “I guess it doesn’t make any difference now that Andy’s gone. I never could understand why there had to be a big mystery anyway. The woman’s name is Lane Appleby. Her husband was Charlie Appleby. They’re Winnipeg people. At least, Charlie was from Winnipeg. He died a couple of years ago. A lot of money from real estate, I think, but, of course, people recognize his name from hockey. He used to play for the Montreal Royals, but when he retired, he went to Manitoba, made a bundle and bought the Winnipeg team. He poured about a million dollars into it and got them some slick new uniforms and a new name.”

  “The Red River Royals,” I said.

  He looked up, surprised.

  “I may not be a jock, Dave, but I am a Canadian.”

  He smiled. “So you are. Sorry, Jo. Anyway here’s the story. Really it’s not much. It started during that first election in 1970, just after Andy was first nominated and Howard Dowhanuik was head of the party. Howard called me and said he had some money for Andy’s campaign. You know how you have to put a name on all contributions over a certain amount? Well, I can’t remember what the amount was back then, but this was over it. I assumed the money was Howard’s. Andy had been Howard’s student, and Howard had really pressured him to run. So it made sense to think the money came from Howard and he just didn’t want others thinking it was favouritism.

  “I donated the money in my name and got a really nice letter from Andy after the election – handwritten. Funny thing, but I guess that money I didn’t contribute was the beginning of my friendship with him. Well, every year it was the same story. In years that there was no election, I’d just give the money to Andy’s constituency association, and when there was an election I’d give the legal limit to the campaign. Andy was always grateful. Then as the years went by and we became friends, it was harder and harder to say anything other than, ‘You’re welcome – hope it helps.’ That’s how it was until last year, when Howard stepped down as leader and the race was on.

  “Just after he resigned, Howard came over to the Caucus Office. He had a really substantial sum of cash – it was always cash. This time Howard came, not just with the money but with an explanation. He said it was time I knew the score, that I might feel compromised if I believed that he was favouring Andy over the other candidates for the leadership. And then he told me the story of Lane Appleby. That morning in my office Howard was edgier than I ever remember him being. But as he said, from the outset, it had been a queer arrangement. Nothing illegal or immoral or unethical, just peculiar.

  “It had started when Andy had been in a class Howard taught. About two months into the term Howard got a call from an old friend in Winnipeg. The guy did Charlie Appleby’s legal work and he said Charlie had heard great things about Andy, which was strange, because Andy was, according to Howard, a solid but not exceptional student. Anyway, Charlie wanted to know if he could contribute to Andy’s education, anonymously, of course, perhaps through a scholarship. Well, as you would know, that sort of thing has to go through all sorts of official channels, and that wasn’t what Appleby’s lawyer wanted at all. So Howard, who wanted to help a promising Ukrainian kid and who could see nothing wrong with taking money when there were no strings attached, agreed to set up a couple of ongoing projects that Andy could help with – in return, of course, for a stipend.” He shook his head in amusement. “Only academics could come up with that word.

  “Anyway, that was the start, and Howard made sure the Appleby money got to Andy through one channel or another till the day Andy died. In fact, about twenty minutes before Andy was murdered, Lane Appleby gave me an envelope of cash for the campaign. That’s what I was talking to her about after the funeral. She didn’t want to take it back.”

  “What did the Applebys get out of it?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Jo. It seems so fishy when I sit here and lay it all out for you. Even my alarm bells are going off. But it happened a little at a time, and Andy never knew. I promise you that. There were never any special favours – never. Not from Andy, not from Howard and not from me. I wish you would just let it go, Jo. I’ve told you everything you need to know. There’s nothing to be gained by digging up the past.”

  “I can’t let it go, Dave. There’s been a murder. Our friend was murdered. What if Lane Appleby knows something that could help us find the person who killed Andy? I need to see her, Dave. I need to see a lot of people if I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

  He looked old and defeated. “Isn’t it bad enough the police are questioning everything about Andy’s life? Six times they’ve been to see me, Jo. Asking about everything from Andy’s finances to his toilet habits. Isn’t it bad enough they’re violating his life? Can’t his friends let him rest in peace?”

  “That’s not fair. Dave, please …”

  But he wasn’t listening. He’d pulled out a pen and a pocket diary and he was scribbling something on a napkin.

  “Here, Jo.” He slid the napkin over to me, and his face was indescribably sad. “I have a feeling you’re going to be very sorry you started this. I hope I’m wrong. I’ll pay for the breakfast.”

  I’d hurt him and I didn’t understand why, but as I watched his jaunty figure trudge through the rain to his Bronco, I felt my throat tighten. When the red truck left the parking lot, the tears started. I sat and looked out the window until Al came over and started ostentatiously wiping the table for lunch. I grabbed the napkin just in time. On it, in Dave’s neat, schoolteacher’s hand, was:

  Lane Appleby

  824 Tuxedo Park

  Winnipeg, Man.

  There were two telephone numbers. After the second, he had written “her unlisted number – your best bet.”

  The day after I talked to Dave Micklejohn I drove to Wolf River. I had set up an office in the granny flat the night before. The boys and I ate supper, then I’d spent a quiet, happy evening sharpening pencils and labelling vertical files and notebooks. And I’d made some phone calls. The first was to Ali S
utherland. I hadn’t talked to her since the day after Andy died, but I’d been thinking about her open invitation to visit her in Winnipeg from the moment I’d seen Lane Appleby’s address. Thanksgiving was in a week and two days, and I decided to call and see if we were welcome. Her voice at the other end of the line was warm and delighted.

  “Oh, Jo, the answer to my prayers – a real Thanksgiving with real food and a real family. Oh, God, I sound like something out of a Walt Disney movie, but I thought we were going to end up getting takeout from the deli and calling an escort service. Do those people do just plain friends for family holidays, do you think?”

  Even during those black months after Ian died, Ali had been able to make me smile.

  “I can’t imagine you two without friends,” I said.

  “Believe. It’s been that kind of summer. Mort’s been up to his elbows and I think I’m treating half of South Winnipeg. Lord, now I’m whining and you won’t come. Call me with a list, Jo. I’ll get Mort to shop. We can sit and talk and I’ll do all the menial stuff like chopping while you excel. Anything at all, as long as one course is your salmon mousse. No, as long all the courses are your salmon mousse. It’ll be like old times – terrific! There goes my beeper – call with the list. Take care of yourself, Jo.”

  I almost didn’t get through to Lane Appleby. Her housekeeper was as protective as a housekeeper in a Gothic novel. Mrs. Appleby was resting and shouldn’t be disturbed. I looked at my watch. It was 7:00 p.m. in Winnipeg. “Tell her please that it’s Joanne Kilbourn calling about Andy Boychuk.” Lane Appleby was on the phone almost immediately, but she did sound as if she should not have been disturbed. Her voice was listless and her responses not entirely coherent. She sounded drugged or drunk. Yes, she knew who I was. Yes, she’d see me at Thanksgiving. I repeated the dates I’d be in Winnipeg four times to make sure they registered with her.