12 Rose Street (16 page)

“Us,” I said.

Zack nodded. “At the time of his death, Cronus owned twenty-six separate parcels of land in the area where the city announced they would be building low-income housing.”

“That includes Toronto Street,” I said.

“It does. So Trotter’s information could be accurate. Apparently, Cronus was a meticulous recordkeeper. Norine’s
got Angus working on the files on the properties. Should be an interesting job for the scion of a slumlord. And it will be very interesting for our campaign to know why the city is dragging its feet on this.”

After Zack left for his afternoon of meetings, I sat down to check my messages. I hadn’t told Zack about Angela because there was nothing to tell. I had dropped in on a sad and seemingly hopeless life, stayed five minutes, and left. But the images of the children’s misery and of Angela’s fury as she condemned the fucking perfect lives of my family were sharp-edged. I couldn’t focus on the messages on my phone screen. Finally, I gave up.

One of the initiatives at Racette-Hunter was a program called Shop Smart/Eat Healthy. There were no grocery stores in North Central, and not everyone had regular access to a vehicle. Shop Smart/Eat Healthy offered family classes about nutrition and regular excursions to big-box stores where a careful shopper could get more bang for his or her shopping buck.

With a Costco Cash Card, Angela could buy what she needed. If she was interested in Racette-Hunter’s Shop Smart/Eat Healthy program, she’d have free transportation to the store and help loading and unloading groceries. The plan was workable, but Angela was proud, and the prospect of playing Lady Bountiful swooping in with a temporary solution did not sit well with me. The cash card was an unpalatable option, but the memory of Angela’s son trying to find fun with a battered sand pail and a kitchen spoon trumped my liberal guilt. I picked up my wallet and my car keys. It was time to head to Costco.

When I went to get into my Volvo I noticed that one of the tires was low, so I took Zack’s Jaguar. It was a fun car to drive and I was moving at a fair clip in the right lane of the Ring Road when a black
SUV
started coming up on my left.

It pulled even with me, then, in the blink of an eye, swung into me, bumping me into the ditch. The airbag inflated, the car rolled, the airbag began to deflate, and the Jaguar righted itself. The whole sequence was over in seconds. Stunned, I sat, still strapped into my seat. A good Samaritan ran down the bank of the ditch, leaned into the Jaguar, unsnapped my seatbelt, and told me to get out in case the car caught fire. I didn’t move, so he hoisted me in his arms and carried me up the embankment to the road. He put me down carefully, then asked if I was okay. His voice, like the rest of him, was immense. He introduced himself as Boomer.

Boomer was the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley – shoulder-length dirty blond hair, missing teeth, heavily tattooed arms, a barrel chest that burst out of his leather vest, torn jeans, motorcycle boots. An unlikely saviour, but he was mine and in my eyes, he was beautiful.

The Ring Road was always busy, and cars slowed to see what had happened. It wasn’t long before the sirens sounded – an ambulance arrived, then the police, then a fire truck. First responders everywhere.

Later, I would discover that I had extensive bruising and a pulled shoulder muscle, but initially I was simply numb – an isolated figure watching as strangers tried determinedly to get me to talk. Everyone had questions, but I had no answers, so I clung to Boomer, my protection against the real world. I didn’t call Zack. I didn’t look at the Jaguar. When the
EMT
asked me my name, I told them it was Joanne Ellard, the birth name I hadn’t used in thirty-five years.

Boomer proved to be not only my saviour but my best witness. He’d been riding his motorcycle behind me and he’d seen what happened. As the emergency medical team checked me over, Boomer’s voice boomed out his narrative to the police.

Someone had checked my wallet, found my next-of-kin card, and called Zack. He arrived just as they were about
to load me into the ambulance. Before handing me over to my husband, Boomer exchanged a few words with Zack. The
EMT
had given me something for pain, and the medication was beginning to hit. Everything suddenly seemed very far away. The last thing I remember was seeing Zack hold out his arms to Boomer, and Boomer bending to be patted on the back.

I spent Monday night under observation at Regina General Hospital. Despite my protests, Zack stayed beside me. All night I drifted in the grey zone between wakefulness and sleep. But whether I was awake or asleep, the images of the weather-beaten sand pail and of Angela limping into the house carrying her crying children were never far away.

When I awoke, Zack’s chair was close and he was holding my hand. “Can I get you anything?”

“A toothbrush,” I said.

Word for word this was the exchange Zack and I had the morning after we first made love, and we both smiled at the memory. Zack kissed my hand. “You and I both know where toothbrushes lead. Let’s get you out of here.”

Two hours later, I was home.

During the early years when my kids were in sports, I handled all injuries that didn’t involve blood by buying two Freezees from the concession stand. I’d sit the injured child down, tell him or her to stay still, elevate the arm or leg, hold one of the Freezees on the injured area, and open the other Freezee and give it to the child to suck on. The treatment was based on the acronym
RICE
– rest, ice, compression, elevation. The therapy for my pulled shoulder muscles followed the
RICE
protocol except it didn’t involve Freezees.

Before I left the hospital I was fitted with a cold shoulder wrap that kept my shoulder iced, compressed, and relatively
immobile. Suitably trussed, all I had to do was take my anti-inflammatory painkillers and get plenty of rest. I settled in on the couch in the living room with a comforter, Lady Antonia Fraser’s memoir of her life with Harold Pinter, and a pot of tea. I was determined to be a compliant patient who healed quickly. Zack offered to clear his calendar for the next few days, but I reminded him that the election was now only a month away and every day counted.

I was just nicely into the first stirrings of passion between Lady Antonia and Harold when the doorbell rang. It was Brock. I stood aside to let him in. He usually moved with the athletic looseness of a person comfortable in his own body, but that day as he walked towards the living room he was tense.

“I know you’re supposed to be resting,” he said. “But I had to see how you’re doing.” He tried a smile. “I recognize the cold shoulder wrap from my football days. Those things really do work. Anyway, we need to talk. I promise I won’t stay long.”

He helped as I lowered myself carefully back onto the couch, then pulled a chair over and sat beside me. His face was grave. “Joanne, I don’t want to add to your anxiety, but I think we have to face the fact that whoever did this to you probably thought that Zack was driving the car.”

My stomach roiled. “You’re right,” I said. “There aren’t that many white Jags in the city and the vanity plate is a giveaway.” Out of nowhere a memory came. One night before we were married, Zack and I had parked down by the creek. A police officer arrived and took great pleasure in shining his flashlight on us. As Zack was zipping up the cop suggested that the next time Mr. Shreve was feeling randy he should rent a room or at least drive a less identifiable car.

Brock was looking at me with concern. “Joanne, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. My mind just drifted there for a moment.”

“I’m sorry. You should be resting. I just need to be clear about exactly what happened. Did you get out of the car at any point? If the person following the Jag saw you get out, that would change the picture.”

“No, I got into the car in the underground garage. I was on my way to the east end to shop.” My shoulder was aching and I adjusted my position.

Brock picked up two small rectangular pillows from the couch and placed them expertly behind my neck and shoulder. “Better?” he said.

I nodded. “Much better. Thanks. Brock, Debbie’s coming over in a few minutes. Why don’t you stick around and see if anything new has come up?”

“I’d like to. Maybe the three of us can start putting the pieces together.”

“We live in hope,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to curl up for a while.” With that, I turned back to my tepid tea and Lady Antonia and Harold’s far from tepid love affair.

After she’d given me a quick, concerned head-to-toe, Debbie moved straight to the business at hand. She took out a paper notebook, wrote Cronus’s name in the middle of the page, and circled it. Then she drew spokes out from the circle and labelled each neatly:
alleged abduction conspiracy; Darryl Colby’s office; the black
SUV
.

“You’re going to have to add another spoke,” Brock said. “Two nights ago I had trouble sleeping. I took my bike out for a ride. I had a strong sense that I was being followed – by a black
SUV
. After what happened to Joanne, I’m certain we’re being targeted.”

Debbie added a spoke, labelled it
Brock Poitras,
and stared at the diagram. “Something’s missing,” she said. “In fact, a
lot of ‘somethings’ are missing. I’ll go back to Boomer. See if he remembers anything more.”

I changed position and winced at the pain. “Debbie, could I have Boomer’s contact information? I’d like to thank him.”

Debbie touched my hand. “So would I,” she said.

Zack came back for lunch. After I filled him in on the morning’s activities, he frowned. “You didn’t get much rest this morning. This afternoon will be different. I’m staying here to make certain you follow your doctor’s orders.”

I slept until four o’clock when Taylor came home, followed shortly by Mieka and the girls bringing chicken soup, the universal panacea, and my favourite, crème brûlée. The procession continued. Jill arrived with a gloriously soft, pale green cashmere robe nestled in a pretty box. The florist brought a half-dozen arrangements. Peter and Maisie came by with an armload of glossy magazines. Angus called. He was buried in Cronus’s papers, but if I needed his help, all I had to do was whistle.

As we were about to sit down for dinner, Margot and Lexi arrived with a vase of Chinese lanterns. Mother and daughter were both wearing pullovers the colour of a ripe pumpkin. Just looking at them cheered me. When she heard Margot’s voice, Taylor rushed in, eager for news of Declan’s adjustment to university. She and Declan texted regularly and skyped daily, so it was unlikely Margot would have anything to report that Taylor didn’t already know, but that didn’t dampen our daughter’s enthusiasm.

Zack and Taylor were cleaning up after supper when Brock came to take the dogs for their run. I was curled up on the couch again with Lady Antonia and Harold, and Brock squatted beside me. “Just checking on you,” he said.

“Good because that gives me a chance to check on you too. I wish we could all just stay in this building till whoever’s
behind this gets caught. Cassandra’s words were prophetic. We’re all suffering.”

Brock picked up on the resignation in my voice. “Jo, we’re going to get through this.”

“I know,” I said. “But until we do, be careful.”

By Thursday the pain in my shoulder was subsiding. I still flinched when I caught a reflection of the purplish-blue bruising covering the right side of my body, and I was still on anti-inflammatory pills, but I was off the painkillers, and my energy was returning. It was time to get back in the game.

When Angus arrived that evening with his report on Cronus’s holdings, I was ready. Cronus’s records may have been old school, but, according to Angus, they were meticulous. Each of Cronus’s twenty-six properties had its own file – legal papers, tenant grievances, reports from Public Health Officials and the fire department; receipts for repairs; the names of every tenant and the dates of their tenancy. Complete histories, except that none of the files had a record of an offer of purchase from the city.

Stapled to the cover of each file was a small, handwritten note listing the amount Cronus had originally paid for the house and the current market value of the property. The average price Cronus had paid for his houses in the 1980s was $60,000. With the exception of one house, each of the properties Cronus owned could now be purchased for around $200,000. The exception was 12 Rose Street. In 1984, Cronus had paid $62,000 for the now mustard yellow house. In the space where the current market value of the property was listed, Cronus had printed “NOT FOR SALE AT ANY PRICE.”

Cronus’s memorial service was held at Speers Funeral Chapel at 5:00 p.m., on Friday, September 19. Zack had
suggested postponing the ceremony until I felt better, but we’d included information about the time and place of the service in the obituary and I opted for proceeding as planned. Working on the files had piqued Angus’s interest in Cronus so he was joining us.

In addition to our family, there were three mourners in the chapel. Zack whispered that the plainclothes officer in the back pew was there because the police are always interested in the guest list at the funeral of a murder victim. The presence of the other two attendees was less easily explained. Slater Doyle was there. So was the Bible-quoting woman who lived at Number 12. Neither Zack nor I had a clue about why either of them had come.

The polished mahogany table on the altar held three items: a large silver-framed photo of Cronus in his white Gatsby suit, a spray of crimson orchids, and the metal urn that Zack had chosen. The
Urn and Casket Guide
Zack had consulted identified the urn’s colour as “Inferno Red.” Zack was certain Cronus would have approved.

Delivering a eulogy about a slumlord who was into rough sex and had no truck with “religious crap” would have daunted most men. Zack had waded in and worked on several drafts of the speech. None satisfied him, and he finally decided he would simply read Paul Anka’s lyrics to “My Way,” then we would listen to the Sinatra recording.