Verdict in Blood

Chapter

6



During the next few hours, if I’d been searching for insight into human behaviour, my own and that of those around me, I couldn’t have picked a better guide than Albert Ellis. “Fallible, f*cked up and full of frailty” pretty well covered it. Alex had taken the late plane back from Saskatoon. He arrived at my place at 10:30, keeping the taxi he’d ridden in from the airport waiting so he could take Eli home. Both of us were edgy with fatigue and fear, and our fight was as stupid as it was inevitable.

When he saw me, Alex didn’t make any attempt to embrace me. From the moment he came through the door, his manner was distant and professional. “What happened this time?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Angus and Eli were in the family room. Angus decided to go off to Blockbuster to rent a video …”

“Leaving Eli alone,” Alex said.

I felt the first stirrings of anger. “Angus asked Eli to go with him. He didn’t want to. Eli’s sixteen years old, Alex. He doesn’t need a babysitter.”

“He’d just gotten out of the hospital, Jo. Angus knew that. So did you.”

“So did you,” I said. “But you weren’t around.”

“I had a job to do.”

“So did I. And I have kids to raise. Alex, I know you’re worried about Eli. I’m worried about him too, but your nephew’s not the only one who’s affected by what happened here tonight. What about my children? Tonight while you were in Saskatoon doing your job, Eli was out in Taylor’s studio drawing this grotesque decapitated horse over the painting of the dragon-boat races she gave him.”

Pain knifed across Alex’s face. “He ruined her painting?”

“Yes, and that was after I’d told him Taylor wanted the painting to be a surprise for him. Alex, I’m going to have to explain this to her, but I don’t even know where to begin.”

I could see the pulse beating in Alex’s neck, but his voice was impassive. “He shouldn’t have been out there alone, Jo. If you knew he was going through some sort of crisis, you should have called me and stayed with him till I got here.”

I took a step towards him. “Alex, there was no crisis. It was a perfectly ordinary Friday evening. As far as I could see, everything was fine.”

“Maybe you only saw what you wanted to see, Jo.”

“Meaning … ?”

“Meaning you might have looked the other way because you wanted a nice peaceful evening. You don’t like problems, Jo.”

“Alex, that’s not fair. If I was afraid of problems, I would have bailed on you months ago. I did everything I could to help Eli. So did my kids. We did our best. It’s not fair to blame us because our best wasn’t good enough.”

“You people are always beyond reproach, aren’t you?”

I felt as if I’d been slapped. “ ‘You people’ – Alex, you’re talking about me and Angus and Taylor. We’re not the bad guys.” For a tense and miserable moment we faced one another in silence, like strangers whose lives had suddenly collided in some violent and permanent way.

When he finally spoke, Alex’s voice was tight. “I’d better get Eli,” he said. “Where is he?”

“In Peter’s room.”

Alex went upstairs. When he came back down, Eli was slumped against him. Dr. Kasperski’s injection had relaxed Alex’s nephew to the heavy-limbed state of a sleeping child.

Alex didn’t stop to talk. When he reached the door, I opened it for him. “Let me know how Eli’s doing,” I said.

He didn’t answer me. I watched as he and Eli made their awkward passage towards the taxi. Till the moment they got into the car, I expected Alex to turn and call out to me. He never did. As the cab pulled away, I felt a rush of pure anger. I slammed the door and started up the stairs. Alex hadn’t once asked about Angus, nor had he expressed concern about Taylor. After months of doing everything we could to include Eli in our lives, my children and I had been shut out. We were an abstraction: “you people,” an enemy not to be trusted.


Saturday morning, I awoke to the kind of thunderstorm that comes only at the end of a period of suffocating heat: lightning, thunder, and a downpour of rain that pounded the earth so viciously it seemed to assault it. I told Rose she was out of luck. There’d be no walk that morning. When I let her out in the backyard for a pee, I spotted the croquet set near the back gate where the boys had abandoned it after their ferocious game the night before. Eli had been happy that afternoon, grinning, waving the mallet over his head. “You can play if you want to, Mrs. Kilbourn, but this is a take-no-prisoners game.” That had been a good time for all of us. As I ran across the backyard to drag the croquet set under the shelter of the deck, I wondered if we’d ever have a day of such mindless joy together again.

Sylvie dropped Taylor home at a little after 9:00. I didn’t say anything about the painting, and miraculously my daughter didn’t ask. She was filled with owl news, and as I made pancakes, I was grateful for the soothing rhythms of her prattle. After Angus came downstairs to take her to her lesson, I stood at the kitchen window and watched the rain. If it kept up, my tomato plants would be flattened by noon.

I was dressed and digging through my closet to find a raincoat to wear to the funeral when the phone rang. Certain it was Alex, my heart pounded as I picked up the receiver. But the call was for Angus.

I wrote down the number, hung up, and turned to go back to my closet. Hilda was standing in the door to my bedroom.

She was all in black: patent-leather pumps and handbag, a black suit in the timeless style of Chanel, and a pillbox hat that must have been thirty-five years old. Her outfit was both smart and appropriate, and I glanced assessingly at my black T-shirt and white cotton skirt.

Hilda read my mind. “You look fine, Joanne. This outfit was not of my choosing. I called and asked my next-door neighbour in Saskatoon to select something apropos from my closet. She’s a dear soul, but she still lives her life according to Emily Post’s Etiquette. Now, if I’m not rushing you, I’d like to get there early. Given our cast of characters, I’d like to be around to make certain this goes off without incident. Are you ready?”

I picked up my raincoat. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said.

The funeral was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. at St. Paul’s Anglican Cathedral. The cathedral was not my church, but I’d been there on many occasions, happy and sad. One of the best had been the day my daughter Mieka had been married in its chapel.

The rain hadn’t let up as we pulled up on McIntyre Street, so I dropped Hilda off and went to find a parking place. By the time I got back to the cathedral, Hilda was in an intense conversation with the Dean. I waved to them and made my way to the chapel. The last time I’d been there had been on Mieka and Greg’s wedding day. It had been at 2:00 in the afternoon, and the late summer sun had poured through the stained-glass windows, suffusing my daughter and her new husband in a glow warm as a blessing. As she knelt at the altar, Mieka’s profile, under the filmy circle of her bridal hat, had been a cameo. Today the shafts of light that split the chapel’s gloom were murky, and as the rain drummed against the windows, I shivered with a nameless apprehension. I slid into a pew, pulled down a kneeler, and prayed that my daughter would come through childbirth safely and that the new baby would be whole and healthy. Then I prayed for my other children, and for Eli and Alex and for all of us.

When Hilda came and knelt beside me, I felt foolishly relieved. I was the mother of four, and soon I would be a grandmother; nonetheless, there were times when I was overwhelmed by the need to hand over all my problems to a grown-up. That morning was one of them.

As we walked back into the church, Hilda touched my arm. “Did you say a prayer for Mieka?” she asked.

“Among others,” I said. “How about you?”

She gave me a wry smile. “I prayed for strength.”

When the service got under way, I found myself hoping that Hilda’s prayers would be answered. Justine Blackwell’s funeral was a standing-room-only affair, but despite the crowding, the congregation had divided itself to reflect the two warring halves of Justine’s life. On one side of the church sat men and women whose bearing and grooming suggested a privileged past and a promising future; on the other were people with wary eyes and faces which spoke of their hard lives. Hilda and I took our places with those whose cause Justine had championed in the last year of her life. During the wait for the service to begin, the two camps regarded one another with mutual suspicion, but when the first chord of the opening hymn sounded, all eyes followed Justine Blackwell’s daughters as Eric Fedoruk led them up the aisle.

The Blackwell women were a striking trio: Lucy, in a black scoop-necked, miniskirted, floral-print dress, seemed more seductress than mourner; Signe, her thick blonde hair braided into a Valkyrie’s coronet, looked powerful enough to storm Valhalla; Tina, in black from head to toe, head covered by a lace mantilla, face hidden behind a black veil, suggested minor European royalty. When they took their place in the front pew, the church fell silent. Almost immediately, there was a second stir. Wayne J. Waters may have been wearing a cheap, ill-fitting suit, but he carried himself with the unmistakable air of a man who demanded respect. When he slid into the pew opposite the Blackwell sisters, it was obvious the show was about to begin.

For a while, it seemed Hilda had made all the right choices. The Mozart mass she had selected was pure beauty; the carefully barbered young men who had accompanied Justine’s mahogany casket to the altar disappeared on cue; the Dean’s prayers were comforting; and the eulogy by Eric Fedoruk was affectionate without being mawkish. He made no reference to the direction Justine’s life had taken in the year before she died. When Eric Fedoruk went back to his seat, I glanced down at my program. All that was left was the closing prayer and the recessional. I picked up my purse and let my mind wander to thoughts of curling up on the couch with the Saturday paper and a pot of Earl Grey.

Suddenly, Hilda sat up ramrod straight, cutting short my reverie. Wayne J. Waters had slid out of his seat and started up the aisle towards the casket. As he reached it, he nodded, touched the lid affectionately, then turned to face the congregation. For a moment, I thought he was going to share one of those painful personal memories that have become the vogue at funerals. I was wrong.

“This one’s for Justine,” he said. “Not the judge Mr. Fedoruk was talking about, but the woman I knew. I learned this for her, because it was her favourite.” In a deep and powerful voice he sang Blake’s old hymn “Jerusalem,” with its thrilling final verses about social justice:

Bring me my Bow of burning gold:



Bring me my Arrows of desire:



Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!



Bring me my Chariot of fire!



I will not cease from Mental Fight,



Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand,



Till we have built Jerusalem



In England’s green and pleasant Land.



When he finished, there was a smattering of applause, quickly muffled, from Wayne J.’s side of the church. Then he resumed his seat, and we were back on program. The discreet young men from the funeral home reappeared; the casket came back down the aisle and Eric Fedoruk and the Blackwell sisters followed it. Eric’s arm was around Lucy’s shoulder; she looked dazed, like the survivor of a disaster. Tina’s emotions, hidden behind her black veil, were unreadable, but Signe Rayner was white with fury. When we came out of the church into the transept she was waiting for us. She grabbed Hilda’s arm and took her aside.

“Whose decision was it to let that creature sing?”

Hilda tapped the program. “As you can see, Mr. Waters was not part of the Order of Service. He acted on his own initiative, and I, for one, am glad he did.”

Signe’s voice was low with fury. “Will you still be glad you let him sing when he’s arrested for murdering my mother?” She turned on her heel and strode towards the mourners’ limousine. One of the young men from the funeral home helped her in; the door slammed shut, and the car sped off.

“Wait.” When I turned, I saw Lucy standing at the entrance to the church. “They left without me,” she said. She looked at us beseechingly. “Can I go to the cemetery with you?”

“Of course,” I said. “Hop in.”

During the ten-minute drive to Crocus Hills Memorial Park, no one said a word. When we drove through the gates, Lucy, who was in the back seat, leaned forward and pointed. “It’s just over there,” she said. “It’s past the place where all the soldiers are buried. You can’t miss it. There’s this incredible weeping willow.”

Hilda turned towards her. “Your mother isn’t being buried there, Lucy.”

“Why not? That’s our family plot. That’s where my father is.” There was an unsettling edge in Lucy’s voice.

Hilda must have heard it too. Her answer was firm and factual. “When I talked to the people from Crocus Hills, they said the family plot was full. We had to purchase a new burial space for your mother. There was no alternative.”

Lucy’s teeth began to chatter. “That’s crazy,” she said. “That plot was for all of us.” She opened the car door. “I’m going over there.”

I glanced at Hilda. She nodded. “Maybe it’s best if Lucy sees for herself,” she said.

We drove past the area reserved for military burials. Under the gunmetal sky, it was a solemn sight: row upon row of identical grave markers, each with its own small red-and-white Canadian flag.

I pulled up in front of the area Lucy had indicated. Before I turned off the ignition, she was out of the car and running towards the weeping willow. She stopped in front of a low black marble headstone; then she gazed around her, as if she were trying to get her bearings.

Hilda and I walked over to her. The tombstone was engraved simply: RICHARD BLACKWELL: 1902-1967. The grave it marked was surrounded by other graves with small cheap markers. Lucy knelt on the wet grass and read out the names incredulously: WANDA SPETZ (1961-1997); KIM DUCHARME (1970-1997); DANIEL SOKWAYPNACE (1975-1997); MERV GEMMELL (1973-1997). When she looked up at us, her extraordinary turquoise eyes were blank with disbelief. “Who are these people?”

Hilda shook her head. “The man from Crocus Hills told me they’re relatives of people your mother met in the last year.”

“My mother let strangers be buried in the family plot? Sweet Jesus.” Lucy laughed mirthlessly.

I touched her elbow. “Lucy, come back to the car. You can deal with this another time.”

She stood up wearily. “Can I? Somehow I doubt that, Music Woman.” She started back towards the car, then she turned to face us. “You understand that I don’t give a good goddamn about the property. It’s just that, after everything else she did to him, my mother shouldn’t have done this to my father.”

The three of us got back in the car and retraced our route to the cemetery entrance. Hilda pointed towards the new and treeless area where the limousines and hearse had stopped. A knot of mourners was already standing over the raw wound of a fresh grave, and the men from the funeral home were unloading their cargo.

Lucy put her hands up as if she were warding off a blow. “I’m not going over there,” she said. “I want to go home.”

I looked at Hilda. Her face was so pale and strained, I didn’t even consult her. I just stepped on the gas.

As I started out through the cemetery gates, Eric Fedoruk was driving in. He slowed and rolled down his window.

His eyes were red-rimmed, but his voice was firm. “Is it over already?” he said. “I had an urgent call from a client.”

Lucy leaned towards the window on the driver’s side. “It isn’t over,” she said. “Eric, she gave away the burial plots around my father’s grave. Did you know about it?”

He winced. “I knew.”

“And you didn’t tell us. Because you were protecting her. The way you always have.”

As I drove down Albert Street, Lucy was silent, sunk into the corner of the back seat.

When I pulled up in front of the house on Leopold Crescent, Lucy mumbled her thanks. Before she went inside, she turned and gave us a small wave. I thought I had never seen anyone so alone.

“I guess if you needed proof that Justine’s mind had deteriorated, you have it now,” I said.

“I wonder,” she said. “I was thinking of another possibility.”

“What other possibility?”

Hilda’s voice seemed to come from far away. “That Justine found her family so abhorrent that the idea of spending eternity with them was insupportable.”

Hilda and I were met by the sounds of the Smashing Pumpkins when we got home. Normally, the Pumpkins were not my favourite group, but that day the pulsing rhythm of “Bullet with Butterfly Wings” was just the antidote I needed for the misery of our morning. Angus and his girlfriend, Leah, were in the kitchen making grilled cheese sandwiches. Taylor was sitting at the kitchen table, pounding the bottom of the Heinz bottle she was holding over her plate. Just as we walked in, her efforts paid off and she flooded her sandwich with ketchup.

She glanced up at us, triumphant. “I didn’t think this was going to work.”

Hilda’s face regained some of its colour during lunch. It seemed grilled cheese sandwiches and the company of young people was just the tonic she needed. At the end of the summer, Leah’s theatre school in Toronto had performed a rock-opera version of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, and Hilda appeared genuinely absorbed by Leah’s account of how she had played Emily. Hilda had taught high-school English for almost fifty years. Our Town couldn’t have held many surprises for her; nonetheless, she appeared to find the prospect of an Emily with cropped hair, an eyebrow ring, and a tattoo of foxes chasing a lion around her upper arm as provocative as I did.

After lunch, I tried to get Hilda to take a nap, but she squared her shoulders and insisted on getting to work on Justine’s papers.

“I don’t mind telling you that business with the family plot has shaken me, Joanne. If there are other surprises, I’d like to know about them before Eric Fedoruk and I discuss the disposition of Justine’s estate.”

I was surprised. “But I thought Eric Fedoruk was the executor.”

Hilda shrugged. “The situation is no longer that clear-cut …”

“Why am I not surprised?” I said.

Hilda’s smile was wry. “Your point’s well taken. For a woman who lived her life with such precision, Justine certainly left her affairs in a troubling state. A second will has just surfaced, Joanne.”

“The one that names you executrix,” I said.

Hilda nodded. “It was in a safety-deposit box at Justine’s bank, and it’s going to raise hackles. The original will was drawn up years ago, and it’s pretty much what you’d expect of a woman like Justine. She makes contributions to some decent charities and arts organizations, and asks that the major part of the estate be divided equally among her daughters. This new will leaves everything to Culhane House, including the home on Leopold Crescent. It was dated three months before Justine’s death.”

“Then it would take precedence,” I said. “Anyone who ever watched Perry Mason reruns knows that, but I wouldn’t want to be in the room when Justine’s daughters hear the news.”

“Nor would I,” said Hilda. “And Eric Fedoruk has suggested that we do a little investigating before he brings this explosive information to those most directly involved. He’s staved them off until now, a tactic for which he deserves commendation. The Blackwell women have been nipping at his heels. But we were wise to wait. If there is a real possibility that Justine was non compos mentis, her daughters are in an excellent position to challenge the second will. You can imagine what the media would make of a legal wrangle between Justine’s daughters and Wayne J. Waters and his crew.”

I nodded. “That business with the family plot today would certainly make for engrossing reading.”

Hilda’s eyes were troubled. “Justine put her trust in me. As her friend I have an obligation to protect her reputation, but as her executrix I also have an obligation to see that her estate is settled fairly. I’ve decided the best route to honouring both obligations is to carry out the task she set me. If Justine was sane, she was entitled to do what she wanted with her money, including give it to Wayne J. Waters. If she was delusional, her money should go where she had intended it to go before her mind became clouded: to her daughters.”

“And you have to decide,” I said. “Damn it, Hilda, why does it always come back to you?”

Hilda gave me a small smile. “Because much as we wish it were, life isn’t all meadows and groves.” She stood up. “Now, I really had better get down to business. Luckily for all concerned, until the day she died Justine was a meticulous keeper of records. It’s amazing how often one can find an answer to a big question by answering a number of smaller ones.”

After Hilda went upstairs, I was restless. I threw a load of laundry in the machine, gave the living room a perfunctory dusting, and flipped through an academic journal that had arrived in Friday’s mail. I couldn’t shake the image of Lucy Blackwell, standing alone on the doorstep, her dark honey hair sleeked by the rain into the style that evoked the flower child she’d been when she made her first album. Curious, I went back down to the laundry room. The last time we’d cleaned the basement, I’d been merciless. I’d thrown out all our old cassettes. I’d deep-sixed Petula Clark and Jimmy Webb and a score of others, but I’d stashed the cassettes I couldn’t part with in my old wicker sewing basket. With its cotton lining patterned in psychedelic swirls of orange, yellow, and red, the basket seemed an appropriate final resting place for old tunes and old memories. Lucy Blackwell’s debut album was on the top of the pile. Almost thirty years had passed since she’d posed for the cover photo: a carefree girl on a garden swing, eyes closed in ecstasy, legs bared, shining hair flying. Almost thirty years had passed since Ian and I had embraced in the hush of the university library and whispered our plans for a perfect life.

I took the tape back upstairs, dropped it in the player on my bedside table, and turned down the bedspread. As I slipped between the cool sheets, Lucy was singing “My Daddy’s Party.” The lyrics were as poignantly beautiful as I had remembered them being, but for the first time I was struck by a curious omission. Lucy Blackwell’s account of enchanted evenings in the lives of three little girls, mesmerized by candlelight and grown-up laughter, shimmered with detail, but nowhere in her remembrance of things past had she mentioned her mother’s name.

When I woke up, Taylor was standing beside the bed, peering down at me. She was wearing the Testicle Festival T-shirt from Bottlescrew Bill’s. “How can you sleep in the middle of the day?” she asked.

“It’s easy,” I said. “You just have to go to bed too late and get up too early.”

She shrugged. “You don’t let me do that.” She ran her finger along the buttons of my tape player.

“Something on your mind?” I said.

She didn’t look up. “You never said whether he liked it.” When I looked at her quizzically, she frowned. “You never said whether Eli liked the dragon-boat painting.” Her dark eyes were anxious.

“Who wouldn’t love that painting?” I said. “Just looking at it made me feel happy.”

Amazingly, the diversion worked. “Did you really like it that much?”

“I think it’s the best work you’ve done,” I said. “I hated to see it leave the house.”

“I could do one for you,” Taylor said. “Not the same. Maybe I could paint a dragon boat with all of us in it.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

“Sounds good to me, too,” she said. She scrunched her nose. “How come you didn’t say anything about my T-shirt?”

“It’s Saturday,” I said. “This house is a taste-free zone.”

The rain had stopped by the time I pulled into the parking lot at NationTV. When I got out of our Volvo, I noticed a spectacular rainbow arching over the east of the city. It seemed like such a good omen that when I got to Jill Osiowy’s office I insisted she come to her window to have a look.

“Does this mean all our troubles are over?” asked Jill.

“Every last one,” I said. “The rainbow never lies.”

Jill had set up the VCR and TV in her office, and as she organized the tapes, I watched the colours of the rainbow fade, then disappear. I was so intent that I didn’t notice Jill waiting for me.

She came over and tapped me on the shoulder. “Can we roll now, or do you want to check some pigeon entrails to see if this is an auspicious day for decision-making?

“We can roll,” I said.

“Good,” she said, then she leaned over and hit play.

Our first prospect was an Ottawa academic who was a NationTV regular during federal elections. He was about my age, with a sonorous voice, a fifty-dollar haircut, and the perpetually aggrieved air of an elitist in an imperfect world.

When his commentary was finished, I looked at Jill. “I could never measure up,” I said.

Jill ejected the tape. “I know what you mean. He always makes me feel as if I have spinach hanging out of my teeth.” She dropped in the next tape.

“Now this one isn’t empathy-challenged, but there is another teeny shortcoming,” Jill said. The smiling face on the screen belonged to a premier who had been retired by the electorate in his province’s last election. In the three minutes during which he spoke about welfare reform, the ex-premier dropped all his final g’s and made four factual errors.

“Thick as a two-bob plank,” I said.

Jill nodded in agreement. “Wouldn’t recognize an intelligent idea if it came with a side order of fries.” She brightened. “But you have to admit he is folksy.”

“Is that why he made the short list?”

Jill dropped the ex-premier’s tape back in its case. “Nope. He made the short list because he’s married to my boss’s sister.” She inserted a third tape. “Let’s hope third time’s lucky.”

Jill’s words were light, but I noticed she was watching my face with real interest. My reaction didn’t disappoint her. Our third candidate was wearing bluejeans and a T-shirt and he had the kind of energy that made a viewer sit up and listen. He was young, in his late twenties, and as he described the recent convention of our official opposition party, he was smart and irreverent.

“He’s good,” I said. “What’s his name?”

“Ken Leung,” Jill said. “He teaches Canada–Pacific Rim Studies at Simon Fraser.”

“I like him,” I said.

“So do I,” Jill said. “What do you think of the shirt?”

“Taylor was wearing one just like it when I left the house,” I said.

“Serious?”

“Serious. Bottlescrew Bill’s Festival obviously draws a varied clientele.”

Jill laughed. “So, is the shirt omen enough for us to offer Ken Leung the job?”

“Sure,” I said. “Especially when you factor in his intelligence, his presence on camera, and the fact that he will appeal to a whole new demographic. It’ll be good for all of us to have somebody on the show who knows what the world feels like to people born after 1970.

“He speaks Cantonese, too,” Jill said. “Do you think Glayne will like him?”

“She’ll love him. He’s a terrific find. If I were you, I’d offer him the job before somebody else grabs him.”

Jill picked up the phone and dialled Ken Leung’s home number. The person on the other end of the line said Ken was playing tennis, but he was expected back any moment. Jill said the matter was urgent and left her number. When she hung up, she screwed her face into an expression that was supposed to be beseeching. “Wait with me until he calls? It’s so boring here on Saturdays; besides, it will give us a chance to get down and dirty about our lives without Angus flapping around.”

“I’ll stay,” I said. “But at the moment, there’s nothing in my life to get down and dirty about.”

Jill frowned. “You and Alex are still together, aren’t you?”

“I guess so, but it doesn’t feel like we’re together. His nephew’s had a lot of problems lately, and Alex and I had a pretty nasty exchange about it last night.”

“I didn’t think you two ever fought.”

“We don’t,” I said. “Maybe we’d be better off now if we had.”

Jill frowned. “Is it that serious?”

“I don’t know. There’s just so much we never talk about. I think we’re both afraid that if we ever really started talking about all the things we were worried about, we’d discover we had too many strikes against us.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No,” I said, “but thanks for asking.”

Jill glanced at her phone. “Looks like we may be here for a while. Do you want a Coke?”

“Sure,” I said.

Jill went to the apartment-sized fridge in the corner of her office. She took out two Cokes, snapped the caps, and handed me one.

I took a sip. “Jill, what do you know about Justine Blackwell and her family?”

Jill’s eyes widened. “Where did that come from?”

“From my concern about Hilda,” I said.

“I noticed she’s become the family spokesperson,” Jill said. “It struck me as a little bizarre.”

“She’s also the executrix of Justine’s will,” I said. “And I don’t like it. I also don’t like some of the people who’ve come with the package. Hilda offered to do an old friend a favour, then all of a sudden she’s at the centre of all this hostility.”

“Do you want me to do some digging?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I do. What’s your take on Justine’s murder?”

“I haven’t got one,” Jill said. “If you watch our news or read the paper, you know as much as I know. There’s the Wayne J. Waters and Co. angle, and there’s the family angle.”

“The family angle,” I said.

“Surely you’ve cottoned to the fact that Justine wasn’t exactly mother of the year.”

“I have,” I said. “But Justine’s daughters aren’t exactly children. They’ve all accomplished things in their lives. Besides, by the time they hit their forties, most people recognize that there’s a statute of limitations on bad parenting.”

“Sometimes there are fresh offences,” Jill said mildly.

“That sounds as if you know something.”

“I know about one specific problem. It was with Tina. About a year ago, Tina decided she needed plastic surgery.”

“But she’s so attractive.”

“She’s also forty-four.”

“That’s not old.”

“It’s old for television,” Jill said. “By the time a woman’s forty-four, the camera has stopped being her friend. Tina had been doing the supper-hour news on CJRG for twenty-one years. Anyway, some a*shole over in their news division decided to trade her in for a newer model. Tina thought she might be able to hold on to her job if she got one of those bloodless facelifts.

I winced. “What on earth is a bloodless facelift?”

“We did a piece on it last fall. It’s the hot new alternative to the surgeon’s knife: laser surgery. It zaps wrinkles by literally burning away the skin on the face. Some of the people on the piece we did had great results.”

“But Tina didn’t.”

Jill shook her head. “She tried to do it on the cheap. It’s an expensive procedure. Twenty thousand U.S. Tina didn’t have that kind of money. Regina’s a pretty small market, and those local stations don’t pay diddley.”

“Why didn’t she go to her mother?”

“That’s what a lot of people wondered. Rumour had it that Madame Justice Blackwell was too busy dealing with the financial needs of her new friends to spend money on her daughter.”

I sipped my Coke. “Do you believe that?”

Jill shrugged. “I don’t know. People talk. Anyway, Tina pulled together what she could and went down to the some laser-surgery clinic in Tennessee. They botched it. Her skin looks like she’s been burned and she’s quite badly scarred. She came to me this summer to ask if we had anything for her in radio. She’s good on air and experienced, but we’re bringing along our own people. Our own young people.”

The phone rang. “Speaking of young people,” I said. “That must be our Generation X-er.”

When Jill picked up the phone, I gathered up our Coke bottles and started out the door towards the recycle box. Jill shouted after me. “Hang on,” she said. “It’s for you.”

Angus’s voice was cracking with excitement. “I’m an uncle,” he said. “Mieka finally had the baby. I talked to Greg. Everybody’s all right. He says the baby weighs – just a minute, I wrote it down – nine pounds, eleven ounces. It could be a linebacker, Mum.”

“Nine pounds, eleven ounces. Poor Mieka,” I said.

“Greg said she was a little wiped,” Angus conceded. “Anyway, I told her we’d come up to Saskatoon tonight. We can go up tonight, can’t we?

“We’ll leave as soon as I get home,” I said. “Wow, I can’t believe it! A grandson!”

“Where did you get that? It’s a girl, Mum. Her name is – wait a minute, I wrote that down too – the baby’s name is Madeleine Kilbourn Harris.”

“But you said … Never mind. So the linebacker is a girl.”

Angus laughed. “Greg said he’s signing her up for the Powder Puff League first thing Monday morning.”

When I got home, I called Mieka to tell her we were on our way. She sounded tired, but very happy. Then I dialled Alex’s number. There was no answer, and he didn’t have voice mail. I hung up the phone, reached under the bed, and pulled out the cradle board Alex had made for the new baby. Our relationship had hit a bad patch, but I still wanted him to be part of the next few hours.

I was throwing a nightie into my overnight bag when Hilda came in. Her hot-pink and apple-green outfit was as cheerful as a late summer orchard, and she was beaming. She came over and embraced me.

“Angus told me the good news,” she said. “And he told me you’re going to Saskatoon tonight. You’re welcome to stay at my house, if that would help.”

“Thanks,” I said. “We’ll be all right at Greg and Mieka’s. It’s only for one night. Hilda, should I call somebody to come in and walk Rose?”

She shook her head. “No need,” she said. “I’ll welcome the walk before bedtime. I have to finish going through Justine’s private financial records, and that’s bound to be unpleasant.”

“Don’t tell me Justine couldn’t balance her chequebook,” I said.

Hilda didn’t smile at my joke. “No, Justine was meticulous. It’s just troubling to see how much she gave and how little she seemed to get back.” She shook herself. “Not one more word about Justine. This is a day for celebration.”

I gave her a hug. “If you change your mind about Rose, there’s a list of Angus’s buddies by the phone. Any of them will be happy to walk her for the price of a Big Gulp.”

Hilda smiled. “A reasonable fee. Now, off with you. Give Mieka and Greg my love, and kiss Madeleine for me.” She drew me close. “Take care of yourself, Joanne. You’re very dear to me.”

“And you are to me,” I said. “I’ll call you when I get back from the hospital.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Hilda said.

I zipped up my overnight bag, picked up a jacket, and grabbed the tape of Lucy Blackwell I’d been listening to that afternoon. Chances were good that Angus would howl at my choice of travel music, but there was always the possibility that Lucy had been around long enough to be retro.

Before I dropped the tape in my bag, I glanced at the photograph on the cover. Rumour had it that Bob Dylan had taken that photo of Lucy on the swing. Twenty-nine years ago, stuck with the coffee parties and the constituency lists while my new husband made a name for himself in politics, I had, on more than one occasion, envied that lovely girl her life of adventure and freedom. I didn’t envy her now. Nothing in Lucy Blackwell’s life, past or present, could hold a candle to the prospect of holding Madeleine Kilbourn Harris in my arms.