Verdict in Blood

Chapter

13



It had started to rain by the time Taylor and I chose our library books and set out for Palliser Place. My younger daughter was full of plans. Buoyed by the news of Hilda’s recovery, she’d checked out the video of Anne of Green Gables to watch when she and I got back from our visit. As our windshield wipers slapped rhythmically at the rain, the notion of losing myself in the blossom-heavy trees and azure skies of Prince Edward Island grew increasingly seductive, but the brutal realities of Justine’s life made escape impossible.

The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place, and the picture that was emerging was a troubling one. There was no doubt in my mind that Larry and Paula Erle, the Chicago couple whose name and address had been in Justine’s private papers, were the parents of the boy who had committed suicide because of Signe Rayner’s treatment. Justine’s reasons for keeping the Erles’ address close at hand were less clear, but an unsettling possibility presented itself. If, as Eric Fedoruk had suggested, Justine had been determined to force her daughter to give up her psychiatric practice, the Erles would have been a useful weapon to have at the ready.

There was logic to my theory that Justine was prepared to use the Erles as a lever to pry Signe loose from her profession, but I was still grappling with the significance of the cancelled cheque. The reason for the cheque’s journey from Regina to Lunenburg seemed clear enough. Somehow, Lucy had persuaded Tina to sign the money over to her. The endorsed cheque was certainly evidence that Lucy was a deeply flawed human being, but why had Hilda considered it important enough to remove from Justine’s other records? By the time we pulled into the parking lot at Palliser Place, I still hadn’t come up with a satisfactory answer.

Tonight, the pretty young woman behind the reception desk was wearing a lime-and-black-striped zipper-fronted Fortrel pantsuit. When I asked her where Garnet Dishaw was, she yawned and indicated the area behind her. “The place he always is when he’s not in the hallway hitting balls around – in the dining room, watching the Golf Channel on the big-screen TV.

As soon as she turned her back, Taylor whispered, “I really like that girl’s clothes.”

“I used to have an outfit like that before Mieka was born,” I said.

“Wear it again,” Taylor said enthusiastically. “You’d look good with that zipper.”

The tables in the dining room were set for breakfast, but the chalkboard inside the door still announced the evening meal. The menu was filled with exclamation marks: Beef Surprise!! Buttered Rice!! Garden Green Beans!! But the damp smell of food that had been held too long on steam tables revealed the unpalatable truth. The food at Palliser Place was not just institutional, it was lousy.

Garnet Dishaw had pulled a chair over in front of the biggest TV I’d ever seen. On the screen, two men were talking about a golf course, which was theatrically green and perfect.

“That’s Old Head in Ireland,” Garnet said. Painfully, he pushed himself to a standing position. “Isn’t it a beauty?”

“It’s nice,” Taylor said. “But grass isn’t really that colour.”

Garnet looked at her severely. “Only a person born and bred on the short-grass prairie would be that suspicious. Are you a stubble-jumper?”

Taylor glanced up at me, questioningly.

“You were born in Saskatoon, and you’ve lived in Saskatchewan all your life,” I said, “so I guess you qualify.”

“Anyway,” my daughter said with a shrug, “I’m Taylor Love.”

Garnet made a courtly bow. “Garnet Dishaw,” he said, “and I’m honoured to make your acquaintance.” He turned to me. “Now, under other circumstances, my suggestion would be that we go back to my room and sample that excellent whisky peeking so seductively out of your bag. But I expect Ms. Love might like to eat some ice cream and watch TV.”

“I would like that,” Taylor said agreeably.

“Splendid,” he said. “This institution has Dixie Cups by the truckload. Ice cream is their method of quelling potential insurrection from the inmates. And, Mrs. Kilbourn, we have coffee. A poor substitute for Johnny Walker, nonetheless …”

“Coffee would be fine,” I said.

Despite our offers of help, Garnet Dishaw insisted on bringing the ice cream and coffee from the kitchen himself. The task wasn’t easy for him, but he performed it gracefully. When, finally, he had Taylor settled with her ice cream in front of the giant TV, and he and I had found a table out of earshot, he turned to me.

“Let’s begin by laying our cards on the table, Mrs. Kilbourn. In my opinion, Justine was as sane as you are. I saw her three days before she died. She was sound as a dollar. Now, where do you stand?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but after yesterday, I think I’m moving towards your camp. For me, the piece of evidence that weighed most heavily against Justine was the fact that she’d let strangers be buried in her family’s cemetery plot. It just seemed so crazy, but one of Justine’s friends at Culhane House offered me a new perspective.”

When I’d finished my précis of Wayne J.’s explanation, Garnet Dishaw chuckled. “So Justine thought Dick would be better off spending eternity with the usual suspects than with his nearest and dearest, eh? Still, it’s no laughing matter deciding you don’t want to buried next to your own children.”

“Not much fun seeing yourself as Lear, either,” I said.

“ ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is/To have a thankless child.’ ” Garnet Dishaw’s face was grim. “Poor Justine. First that terrible business when Dick died, now this.”

“What terrible business? When I was here with Keith, you said Richard Blackwell died of a broken heart. What broke his heart?”

Garnet sipped his coffee. “A lie,” he said. “Someone told him Justine was having an affair. It wasn’t true, of course, but Justine’s accuser made a cruel choice in selecting the putative paramour. Sadly, Richard, who was usually the most perceptive of men, was blind to the motivations of the talebearer. By the time he arrived at my apartment with the story, he was a beaten man. He loved his family, and he made me promise never to tell a living soul. Forty-eight hours after Richard’s midnight visit, he was dead.” Garnet Dishaw’s clever old face grew thoughtful. “There’s nothing like death to give a casual promise the force of a blood oath.”

“Who was Justine supposed to be having an affair with?”

Garnet Dishaw shuddered. “The boy next door.”

“But there’s only one house next door to Justine, and Eric Fedoruk said he’d lived there all his life.”

“He had,” Garnet said simply.

It took a moment before the penny dropped. “But Richard Blackwell died in 1967,” I said. “Hilda told me he had his heart attack at a Centennial dinner. Eric Fedoruk couldn’t have been more than …”

“Fifteen,” Garnet Dishaw said. “Justine was forty and Richard was sixty-five.”

“Who would make up something like that?”

Garnet’s face closed in on itself. “No,” he said, “that’s one part of the story I won’t tell. It may have been thirty years ago, but I have to honour my word to Richard there.”

I sipped my coffee. “That’s all right,” I said. “I have a pretty good idea who told him. All I need to know is whether you’re certain there was no truth to the accusation.”

“I’m certain,” Garnet said. “I’ve known Eric since he articled with our firm. There’s not a chance in the world he would have had a sexual encounter with Justine. He had as little interest in physical intimacy as she did.”

Taylor and I didn’t stay long. After his revelation, Garnet Dishaw seemed somehow spent, and I was increasingly anxious to get in touch with Alex. Besides, we were no longer alone. The Saskatchewan–Toronto football game was being televised, and the residents of Palliser Place, decked out in the green and white, were arriving to cheer on the Roughriders.

We walked Garnet back to his room. Before he went inside, he shook hands with Taylor, then he took both my hands in his. “Be careful, Mrs. Kilbourn. We’ve already sacrificed one fine woman to this madness.”

“I’ll be careful,” I said. I took the bottle of Johnny Walker out of my bag and passed it to him. “And I’ll come back to help you make a dent in this.”

His voice was firm. “Do I have your word on that?”

“You have my word,” I said.

In the time we had been inside Palliser Place, the wind had picked up and the rain had grown heavier. Taylor and I had a soggy run to our car. As we drove home, Taylor, keyed-up by her visit and by the wildness of the night, prattled happily, but I was suddenly exhausted. It had been a long day, and the ache in my muscles and the soreness in my throat now made undeniable a fact I had spent the day denying: I was sick.

Spurred on by our agreement that she could watch half an hour of Anne of Green Gables after she’d had her bath, Taylor went straight upstairs. As soon as I heard the water running, I went into the family room to call Alex. When I picked up the phone, the beep indicating that I had a message was insistent. I tapped in our password. At first there was silence, and I thought the call was a prank. Then I heard Eli’s voice, very agitated. “I’m a bad person,” he said. “I’ve done bad things. It was her mother who died. I saw it on TV. I had to tell her about the blood. There was so much blood. It was everywhere.” The line went dead. I replayed the message. Even when I was prepared for Eli’s words, they chilled me. I dialled the number of the apartment. Alex answered on the first ring.

“It’s me,” I said. “Is Eli there with you?”

“I don’t know where he is, Jo. When I came home the door to the apartment was open, but he was gone.”

“He called us,” I said. “There was a message on the machine when Taylor and I got home tonight.” I relayed Eli’s words.

“But he didn’t say anything about where he was going?”

“No, but, Alex, I think I understand part of this. The six o’clock news showed that press conference announcing Terrence Ducharme’s release. There was some file footage on Justine’s murder. Eli must have seen it. I guess he hadn’t realized till tonight that Justine was Signe’s mother.”

“And he called Signe Rayner to talk about it? God, Jo, I hope you’re wrong. After I saw you today, I called her to tell her we thought it was time Eli tried another therapist. She went nuts. I’m no expert, Jo, but I would think that patients change therapists all the time. Signe Rayner acted as if I was betraying her. She told me I was ruining Eli’s chances for recovery, then she started in about how Eli had done all these terrible things and how nothing he said could be believed.”

“But she was his doctor. She was supposed to be on his side.”

Alex’s voice was tense. “I’ve got to find him, Jo.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, stay there,” he said. “Eli tried to get in touch with you once. He might try again.”

I hung up. Tense and restless, I walked to the window. Even through the glass, I could hear the wind keening as it tossed leaves and litter through the air. Eli was out there somewhere, alone in the unforgiving night. Rose, who hated storms so much she never left my side until the weather calmed, whimpered. I reached down to rub her head. “It’ll be over soon, Rose,” I said, but as I gazed at the darkness, I wondered if the fear and the uncertainty ever truly would be over.

Miserable, I turned away. Propped on the mantel till it dried was Taylor’s painting of the dragon-boat crew that would never be. It seemed that a hundred years had passed since that perfect night when Alex and the kids and I had walked home from the lake and made our plans for next year.

I repeated Eli’s words aloud. “I’ve done bad things. There was so much blood.” Two sentences, but they opened the floodgate. Details I’d been struggling to hold back since Labour Day overwhelmed me: Eli at the football game telling Angus, “Sometimes I’d just like to kill you all.” Alex’s memory of Eli showering and changing into fresh clothes hours after Justine’s murder. Eli’s inability to remember anything that happened from the time he disappeared at the football game until he walked into Dan Kasperski’s office. The crude brutality of the decapitated horse splashed over Taylor’s dragon-boat painting. The recklessness with which Eli whirled our croquet mallet above his head, the same mallet that would be brought with such force against Hilda’s skull that it would almost kill her.

Juxtaposed, the pictures formed a montage, dark with potential violence, but the composite was incomplete. There were other images of Eli, not the terrifying spectre of my worst imaginings, but the gentle boy with the shy smile who had worried about Mieka’s unborn baby and looked at me with hopeful eyes the night I’d visited him in the hospital and talked about a school where he might feel safe. This Eli had worried that Taylor might feel left out and had brought Dilly Bars for dinner so I wouldn’t have the bother of cleaning up. Something had gone terribly wrong Labour Day weekend. But remembering the Eli I knew, I was as certain as I could be of anything that, whatever Eli’s connection was with those unknown events, he had been more sinned against than sinner.

I was still transfixed by the dragon-boat picture when Taylor ran into the room. Sweet-smelling and rosy from her bath, she came over, stood by me, and looked up at her painting. “Which one do you like better, this one or the one we gave Eli?”

“Well, I like the way Mieka and Greg and Madeleine and Hilda are in this one.”

“You’re in it, too,” Taylor said.

“So I am. And guess what? I may have an idea about somebody to sit in that empty place next to me.”

“Who?”

“Alex.”

“Good,” she said. “I miss him.” She narrowed her eyes at the picture. “This one’s okay, but I like the way the water looked in the other one.”

“That’s because the perspective was different. You painted the race the way it looked from higher up.”

She gave me a look of exasperation. “I know,” she said. “I was standing on that hill up by that Boy Scout thing.”

I whirled to face her. “What?”

“That thing with the stones. From up there it looked like Angus and Eli had a wall of water in front of them. So that’s what I painted, and I put me in too. Now, let’s watch the movie.” She slipped the video into the VCR and scrambled onto the couch. “Come on,” she said. “It’s starting.”

From the time the opening credits rolled, Taylor was rapt, but my brain was racing as I ran through the sequence of events that fateful Labour Day weekend. Until that moment, I had seen the area in which we watched the races and the Boy Scout memorial where Justine was murdered as the focal points of two different tales. In fact, the places were separated from one another by less than fifty metres.

“There was so much blood.” That’s what Eli had said. What if … ? As Anne of Green Gables opened, I began to put together a hypothesis. Within half an hour, Taylor had fallen asleep in my arms, and I had a conjecture worth testing. All I had to do was wait for Eli to show up, so we could test it together.

At 9:30, I heard a car pull into the driveway. I leapt up and ran to the window, but it wasn’t Eli and Alex, it was my son.

Angus was in an expansive mood. “It was the best evening. I didn’t think it was going to be, but Rabbi Drache is a great guy. He knows everything. He’s so smart, Mum, and he likes football. We watched the game.”

“Who won?” I said.

“The Argos,” Angus said. “But I didn’t mind. Rabbi Drache was like a little kid. He was so wired.” He stood up. “Anyway, I have a quiz in English tomorrow, so I should probably read the story.”

“What’s the story?” I asked.

“ ‘The Painted Door,’ ” he said. “It’s not bad. Do you want me to carry Taylor up to bed?”

“Oh, Angus, would you?” My voice sounded uncharacteristically plaintive.

For the first time since he’d walked into the room, my son really looked at me. “Is everything okay?”

“We don’t know where Eli is,” I said.

Angus’s body tensed. “Should I go look for him?”

“No, stay here. If he calls, I might need to go and pick him up.” I began coughing, and I couldn’t seem to stop.

“Are you getting a cold, Mum?”

“I’m not getting a cold, Angus. I’ve got a cold, but at the moment, I’m not planning to do anything more strenuous than make myself some tea and sit around waiting for the phone to ring.” I smiled at my son. “Don’t look so worried, it’ll take me back to my college days.”

Rose stayed glued to me when I walked into the kitchen to fill the kettle. “You really are a major-league suck,” I said. She looked wounded, but she didn’t move. “Well, at least let’s sit down while we wait for the water to boil.” Rose started to follow me to the table, but suddenly she stopped, veered towards the back door, and began to bark. She and I had been together for a long time; as a rule, she trusted me to get the message after a couple of perfunctory woofs, but this time she was adamant. I went over to her, flicked on the yard lights, and opened the back door. The wind was still howling, and it blew a scattering of sodden leaves onto my kitchen floor. I nudged Rose with my toe. “Go on,” I said. “If you have to go, go. The sooner you get out there, the sooner you can come back in.”

My tone was sharp, but Rose, who was usually preternaturally sensitive, didn’t budge; she just stood on the threshold, barking.

“There’s nothing out there,” I said, but as I started to shut the door, I saw that I was wrong. A slender figure in bluejeans and a white T-shirt was shinnying over the back fence. Even a quick glance was enough for me to recognize Eli’s lithe grace. I walked out on the deck and called his name, but he’d already disappeared into the laneway. I ran down the deck stairs to the lawn. When I opened the back gate, the wind caught it and banged it against the fence. I stepped out into the alley. The creek was racing the way it did during spring run-off, and the wind was howling, but there wasn’t a living creature in sight. I dashed back inside my yard, grabbed the gate with both hands and pulled it shut. It was only when I latched it that I felt the stickiness on my hands and smelled the paint. As I moved closer to the gate, I was able to see the outline of the black horse. Its message was as clear as a cry for help.

The Lavoline Taylor used to remove paint from her hands was in the carport. After I’d got off most of the black spray paint, I ran back inside, grabbed my coat, and called Angus. “Eli’s out there,” I said. “If Alex checks in, tell him I’ve gone out to look for him.”

“Are you going to bring him back here?”

I shook my head. “I think when we’ve worked everything out, Eli will just want to go home.”

When I pulled out onto Regina Avenue, I decided that, instead of heading directly for Albert Street, I’d double-back along the lane. Somehow, I couldn’t believe that, having worked up the courage to come to our house, Eli would simply run away again. The decision was a good one. The gravel of our alley was spongy from the rain, and I had to keep the Volvo moving at a snail’s pace. Nonetheless, it didn’t take long to find Eli. As I’d anticipated, he hadn’t gone far. My headlights picked him out, curled up between my neighbour’s back fence and our communal garbage bin. I jumped out of the car and ran to him.

“Come on, Eli. You and I have things we need to talk about.”

“Just leave me.”

“I’m not going to leave you.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“You don’t know.”

“But I do know. Get in the car with me, and I’ll explain. If you’ll give me a chance, I can show you that you didn’t do anything wrong.”

After a few seconds, he slowly got to his feet and headed for the car. Without a word, he slid into the passenger seat, closed the door, and sat, staring straight ahead. I glanced over at him. “Are you okay?”

Eli nodded. The light from the alley threw the carved beauty of his profile into sharp relief. Except for the trembling of his lower lip, he was absolutely still.

The road that winds through Wascana Park offers few places to pull over, so I drove straight to the cul-de-sac Justine had parked in the night of her death. It was behind an information booth that heralded the pleasures of Regina, the Queen City. The booth wasn’t much: a Plexiglas-protected map of the area; a display case filled with posters of past and future events; a public telephone; and a clear view of both the Boy Scout memorial and the shoreline from which we’d watched the races.

I turned to Eli. “Look down there and tell me what happened that night after you decided you couldn’t stay at the football game with us.”

“Noooooo.” The word ululated into a moan.

“Okay,” I said quickly. “Let’s go back to a better time. We’re at the game. All of us. We were having fun. Then you and Angus went off for nachos.”

“Just a f*cking Indian,” he said furiously.

I took his hand. “That’s what the man said, and you were hurt and angry. Eli, tell me what happened next.”

“I walked down Winnipeg Street – found some guys. They were doing solvent. They wanted me to do it too, but I wouldn’t.”

“Good for you,” I said. “Then what happened?”

“I didn’t know where to go.” His voice broke. “I couldn’t go home. I didn’t want to disappoint my uncle again.”

“He loves you, Eli. You couldn’t disappoint him.”

“Don’t make me do this,” he said miserably.

I stroked his hand. “We have to,” I said. “Now, you decided you couldn’t go home, so you came back here to where we watched the races.”

“Not on purpose,” he said. “At least I don’t think so. I was just walking, and I ended up here.” He smiled. “But it was nice to remember. I guess I fell asleep.”

To this point, Eli’s voice had been dreamy, the voice of someone whose mind was travelling through another time and place. Suddenly, his body grew rigid, and he began to breathe heavily. “When I woke up, the woman was screaming. I heard her. ‘No. No. No. Don’t do it. No, don’t. Don’t.’ She sounded so scared. Just the way my mum did.… I went to help her. So much blood. There was so much blood.” He had started to hyperventilate.

“Take a deep breath,” I said. “You did everything right, Eli. Someone was hurt, and you went to help. That’s the truth. All you did was try to help someone who needed you.”

His body relaxed; his eyes met mine, and his question was urgent. “I didn’t do anything wrong?”

“No,” I said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I don’t want to remember any more.”

“That’s all right,” I said.

“Can we just go home now?”

“We can go home,” I said.

He gave me a small smile and lay back against the seat.

I got a parking spot in front of the apartment building, which was a stroke of real luck because my adrenaline level had dropped dramatically. Even walking up the stairs to the third floor seemed to take every ounce of energy I could summon. Eli was tired too. When we got to the apartment, he reached into the old-fashioned milk chute to the left of the door, pulled out a key, and exhaled with relief. “I always forget my key, so my uncle leaves one in here for me.” He looked at it curiously. “I think this one is his.”

“We’ll be here when he gets home,” I said.

“I’m still scared,” he said.

“Of what?” I asked.

“Of everything.”

“We’ll work on that,” I said. “Now, let’s go inside. I’m going to call our house so, when your uncle checks in, he’ll know where we are.”

“You’re not going to leave me, are you?”

“No,” I said. “I’m going to stay here till you boot me out. Now, why don’t you have a shower and get into some dry clothes. Could I heat you up some soup or something?”

He shook his head. “I just want to go to bed.”

I knew how he felt, but I still had miles to go before I slept. After Eli started his shower, I called home. Angus said that Alex had been checking in every half-hour or so from the cellphone in his car, and he was expecting a call any minute. When I told Angus that Eli and I were safe at the apartment on Lorne Street, my son’s relief was apparent.

After I hung up, I grabbed a quilt, sat down in an old easy chair Alex loved, closed my eyes, and listened to the reassuringly ordinary sounds of rainy night traffic and Eli’s shower. When I heard the knock, I was so certain it was Alex that I opened the door without a second’s hesitation.

She was in the apartment before I could even think of a strategy to stop her.

“Where’s Eli?” she said.

“He’s not here,” I said.

She looked towards the bathroom. “Don’t lie to me,” she said. “I was waiting across the street. I saw you come in. Call him.”

“No,” I said.

“What’s the point? I’m going to get him sooner or later.” She shook her head sadly. “Music Woman, why did you have to get involved in this?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I just came by tonight to stay with Eli. He wasn’t feeling well.”

Lucy Blackwell’s turquoise eyes were cold. “I understand he’s a very sick boy,” she said. “My sister says he’s delusional.”

“That may be,” I said carefully. “He’s had a lot of trauma in his life. It’s quite possible he’s confused about many things.” I took a step towards her. “Lucy, why don’t you leave and let me take care of him.”

“Has he said anything to you about me?”

“No,” I said. “He’s never once mentioned your name.”

“I hear he’s been talking about my mother’s death.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” I said. “As your sister pointed out, Eli is delusional. Nobody will put much credence in anything he says.” I took a step closer to her. “If I were you, I’d walk out that door right now. At this point, there’s no proof of anything. You can grab your passport and be on the first plane out of here.”

She was wearing a silvery raincoat with a hood, and she pulled the hood down to reveal her dark honey hair. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Why are you offering me a way out, Music Woman?”

“I’ve loved your music for thirty years. Maybe I just want to see your life have a happy ending.” My heart was pounding so loud, I was amazed she didn’t hear it. “Just go, Lucy.”

“You’d be on the phone to the police as soon as I started downstairs.”

“There’s nothing to tell them,” I said. “It’s all perfectly innocent: you knocked at the door; we talked; I asked you to leave; you left.”

She looked at me thoughtfully. “You really would let this be our little secret?”

I nodded. “Just leave us alone,” I said.

She pulled her hood up. “Okay,” she said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I can still get away.” She smiled her wonderful dazzling smile. “Many thanks, Music Woman.”

“No!” Eli’s scream was atavistic. I whirled around to face him. He was wearing a white robe and his long black hair fell loosely to his shoulders. He looked like an acolyte in a religious order, but there was no peace in his face. His eyes were wide with terror, and his mouth was a rictus. “You did it,” he said. “You killed her. I saw. I saw. She kept crying and asking you to stop.” His voice grew higher. “ ‘Lucy. Lucy, No. No.’ There was so much blood,” he screamed. “So much blood!”

Lucy’s hands shot up, and she lunged at him. I stepped between them. In an instant, she changed her target. Suddenly, her hands were around my throat, and she was squeezing. I tried to call out, but the only sound that came from my throat was a strangled sob. When I reached up to unclasp her fingers, it was like grappling with steel. I kicked at her legs, but she didn’t falter. Lucy Blackwell had the strength of someone engaged in mortal combat. Wildly, I looked around the room I knew so well, but there was nothing there to save me. My vision blurred. I saw red, then black. I felt the sensation of falling, and I knew I was dying.

Then, miraculously, it was over. The fingers loosened. I fell against a chair and gulped air thirstily. When I was able to focus, I saw what had happened. Eli had grabbed Lucy from behind. His arm was around her neck in a kind of stranglehold. Slowly but inexorably, he brought her to the floor and pinned her there.

A few seconds later, when Alex came through the door, everything was taken care of. He nodded at Eli. “Good job,” he said.

Eli gave him a small smile. “Just the way you taught me.” Then his face broke into misery. “She killed her Mum,” he said. “She killed her own Mum.”

“I know,” Alex said. He went over to Lucy, pushed her arms behind her back, and handcuffed her. “Stay there,” he said. “And don’t move.” He looked up at me. “Could you call headquarters, Jo? Get them to send some backup.”

As the three of us waited, Lucy’s eyes never left my face. It was obvious that, despite the events of the past few minutes, she still saw me as someone with the potential to be her advocate. “You shouldn’t have got involved,” she said in her low and thrilling voice. “Should have just stayed home with your rocking chair and your kids.”

“Why did you do it, Lucy?” I said.

Lucy shifted position and groaned a little. She was obviously in pain. “Justine never invited us to the party. No matter how hard we tried or how perfect we looked or how much we accomplished, it was never enough. She never invited us to the party.” Her voice was heartbreakingly sad. “ ‘Three little girls in virgin’s white, swimming through darkness, longing for light.’ I killed my mother because she never once invited us to come in out of the dark. And do you know what? If I had the chance, I’d kill her again.”

“And Hilda?” I asked. “Would you try to kill Hilda again?”

Confusion flickered across her face. “That was a mistake. Everybody makes mistakes, right?” She tried a gallant smile. “I just make more than most people.”

For the next few minutes, Lucy rambled through her apologia pro vita sua. Much of the time she was incoherent, but two key points emerged. Lucy herself had been the one who went to Richard Blackwell with the lie about Justine’s affair with Eric Fedoruk; nonetheless, she blamed Justine for her father’s death. “He loved her too much,” she said. “It didn’t leave enough for me.” Lucy held her mother responsible for Tina Blackwell’s botched medical procedure too. Although Justine had given Lucy a substantial amount of money to get The Sorcerer’s Smile produced, when the boxed set of Lucy’s musical legacy failed to take off, Justine refused to write the cheque that would have given her daughter the saturation ad campaign Lucy believed would salvage her dream.

“The only option she left me was Tina,” Lucy said sulkily. “How do you think it makes me feel every time I have to look at my sister’s face?”

The rest of Lucy’s tale was equally ugly, equally filled with self-pity and bitterness. I was relieved when the sounds of a siren split the night. For three decades, I had loved Lucy Blackwell’s voice, but I never wanted to hear it again. When the uniformed police arrived, it was over quickly. Two officers helped Lucy to her feet and led her towards the front door. As she walked by me, she gave me a sidelong smile. “So, are you still my number-one fan, Music Woman?”

“Not a chance, Lucy,” I said. “Not a chance.”

When the door closed behind her, Eli turned to me. “I want to watch them take her away,” he said.

We walked out to the balcony together. The rain had stopped. The plaster owl which Alex and I had designated as our sentinel sat jauntily on his railing perch, and the air smelled fresh-washed. Down the street, the bells at the United Church were ringing. It was a good evening to be alive. Eli and I watched silently as Lucy was put into the squad car. Just before Alex got into the front seat, he called up to us. “I love you,” he said.

Eli looked at me. “Did he mean me or you?”

“Both of us,” I said. “Now, come on. Let’s get inside. You and I have a lot to talk about.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, like when you think you’ll be ready to get together with Dan Kasperski and when you think you’d like to meet Ms. Greyeyes and get started at school.”

“I’d like to come by your house some time again, to see the kids.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange.”

“I’ll need to tell Taylor I’m sorry about what I did to her painting, won’t I?”

“Yes,” I said, “you will.”

“Do you think she’ll listen to me?”

“She’ll listen. She’s a good little kid.”

I could see the relief in his face. For a moment he was silent, then he turned to me. “Do you know what I wish?” he said softly.

“What?”

“I wish we could have that dragon-boat team we talked about – the one with all of us.”

“There’s no reason we can’t,” I said. “But, Eli, do you really think Taylor’s up to taking on all the obligations of being our drummer?”

Eli grinned. “Sure she is. We just have to let her know we think she can do it, and give her time.”

• • •

A few days later, when Angus and I were helping Hilda move from the hospital to the Wascana Rehabilitation Centre, I remembered Eli’s words about the importance of faith and time. Angus was wheeling Hilda out to our car, and we were talking about what she might need in her new home.

“A good poetry anthology,” Hilda said. “Do you have one, Joanne?”

Angus screwed up his face with distaste. “Why would you want to read poetry? It’s all about death.”

Hilda touched his hand. “It’s not about death, Angus. It’s about time. All poetry is about time.”

Therapy was about time, too. At least, that’s what Dr. Dan Kasperski believed. There were no quick fixes for Eli. When Alex and I had gone to talk to him about Eli’s prognosis, Dan Kasperski had been realistic. “He’s got a lot going for him. He’s smart and he’s strong. He’s come through far more than anyone should be expected to endure. The fact he acted heroically with Lucy Blackwell was a big move forward. But it’s up to him. He has to decide what he’s going to do with the time ahead. If he wants to give it up to anger and self-pity, he’ll be screwed. If he uses his time wisely and bravely …” Dan Kasperski shrugged. “Who knows? Sky’s the limit.”

My horizons weren’t sky-high. On our shared fifty-second birthday, Keith Harris and I went out for dinner, and I told him that Alex and I were going to try again. Keith didn’t seem surprised, but he didn’t offer congratulations. “I want what’s best for you, Jo, but even if I can’t be in the picture, I’m not sure if Alex is the right one. Somehow I can’t see a future for you two.”

“Maybe there isn’t one,” I said. “Alex and I may have to be content with the present.”

Keith smiled. “Then let’s drink to that.” He raised his glass. “To the present. I hope it will be enough for you, Jo.”

I raised my glass. “So do I,” I said.

By Thanksgiving, Justine Blackwell’s tragedy had reached its dénouement. Lucy Blackwell was awaiting trial; Eric Fedoruk had brokered an agreement between Culhane House and Tina Blackwell about Justine’s estate; and the College of Physicians and Surgeons had set in motion procedures to revoke Dr. Signe Rayner’s licence. There was, however, one piece of business still to be finished.

Thanksgiving Monday, I picked up Garnet Dishaw at Palliser Place, and together we drove to the Wascana Rehabilitation Centre to get Hilda. The day was grey and still, a day for remembering. As we made our way to the cemetery where Justine was buried, Garnet and Hilda traded memories of the woman they had known and cared for. When we turned onto the road that led to Justine’s burial plot, I spotted Eric Fedoruk’s Eurobrute pulled up beside Wayne J. Waters’ elaborately painted van. As soon as we parked, the two men came over. Wayne J. reached into the back seat, pulled out Hilda’s wheelchair, snapped it smartly into place, and helped her into it; Eric, after greeting Hilda warmly, helped Garnet Dishaw over the uneven ground to Justine’s grave. Tina Blackwell, dressed in black, was waiting by the new headstone. She acknowledged us with a shy smile, then turned to Wayne J.

“Are we ready, Wayne?” she asked.

“Ready as we’ll ever be,” he said. The tombstone was covered with a beach towel. “I hope you don’t think this is in bad taste,” he pointed to the towel. “I should have thought ahead, found something appropriate. But I like the idea of an unveiling.”

“I do too,” Hilda said. “It gives the moment a sense of importance.”

“Okay,” Wayne J. said. “Here goes.” He grabbed the corner of the towel between his thumb and forefinger. “This is a present from Tina and from all of us at Culhane House. Hilda chose the words. They’re from Proverbs.” He flicked aside the towel to reveal a creamy marble headstone. On it were chiselled Justine’s full name and a simple inscription: THE MEMORY OF THE JUST IS BLESSED.