12 Rose Street (7 page)

Howard spooned sugar into his coffee. “The kids piss me off,” he said. “Strolling into class whenever the spirit moves them, texting, whining about their grades.”

“Okay,” I said. “So you don’t want to write, you don’t want to volunteer, and you don’t want to teach. Howard, if you’re really at loose ends, why don’t you come and work on our campaign?”

“Because I don’t like your husband.”

“He doesn’t like you either,” I said. “But you wouldn’t be working with Zack. You’d be working with me. I really could use some help.”

Howard looked at me hard. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Just too much on my plate.” I gave Howard a précis of the events of the last two days.

When I was through, Howard said, “Jesus, no wonder you look tired. Aside from joining the campaign – which I’ll have to think about – is there anything I can do?”

“Yes,” I said. “Tell me what you know about how involved Graham Meighen and Lancaster Development are in Scott Ridgeway’s campaign.”

Howard added more sugar to his coffee. “Apparently, Meighen has let it be known in the business, construction, and real estate communities that they have to win this one,” he said.

“We’ve done polling,” I said. “They’re ahead.”

“Yeah, but they’ve never had a serious opponent before. They know that Zack won’t be a pushover, and they’re nervous about the slate of progressives running for city council. The status quo works for these guys,” Howard said. “But, Jo, they’re honest citizens – at least as honest as they have to be – they wouldn’t be part of a hoax that involved a threat to take a kid. And they certainly would not have had a guy murdered.”

“Well somebody did,” I said.

Howard narrowed his eyes at me. “This really is getting to you, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I said. “And if you’d seen what they did to Cronus it would be getting to you too. We’re all vulnerable, Howard, and in that wheelchair, Zack is an easy target. I just wish I knew what I was up against.”

Howard put his arm around my shoulder. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to fight it alone,” he said. “Throw in an invitation for dinner the next time you cook brisket and I’ll join your campaign.”

I leaned in. “Funny, I was just on my way to the butcher to order a brisket. My recipe takes two days. How about Thursday night?”

“You’re on.”

When I pulled up in front of Lakeview Fine Foods, my phone was ringing. It was Zack.

“Perfect timing,” I said. “I was just going in to order a brisket.”

“Good. I love brisket. How come we haven’t had it lately?”

“Because it’s been summer,” I said. “Zack, I’ve invited Howard to have dinner with us Thursday night. I want him to join our campaign.”

“I don’t like him.”

“He doesn’t like you either. But we need him, and he needs us, so I think it’s time you buried the hatchet.” Zack didn’t respond, so I barrelled on. “When Peter and Angus were little guys, and they were sniping at each other, I always made them sit on the couch and hug for ten minutes.”

Zack chuckled. “Howard has to hug first,” he said.

That day there was a function that I would have given anything to forego. It was a memorial lunch for my friend Beverly Levy, who had died of pancreatic cancer a year earlier. She was thirty-eight years old. Before my retirement from the university the year before, Beverly had been my colleague in the political science department. The purpose of the lunch was to raise money for a scholarship in her honour. I had been very fond of Beverly and remembering her would be painful, but she had met death with a grin and a raised middle finger. The least I could do was honour her by donning my best suit and pantyhose and pumps.

The luncheon was being held in the Agra Torchinsky Salon of the Mackenzie Art Gallery. The salon was a second-floor space, ideal for receptions because of its proximity to the art but also because the floor-to-ceiling glass of its west wall brought the treed beauty of Albert Street into the room.

I arrived late and had trouble finding a parking place. I had hoped I’d be able to slip in unnoticed, but when I checked my ticket, I discovered I’d been seated with the university president, a number of the university’s senior
administrators, and Bev’s parents. Bev’s father was Graham Meighen. I’d seen her mother, Liz Meighen, often at the hospital. She rarely left her daughter’s side, but until that day I’d never spoken to Graham. I wasn’t looking forward to breaking bread with him, but there was no turning back. The president’s table was directly in front of the podium. I manoeuvred my way through the other tables, slid into my chair, and lowered my eyes.

The program for the luncheon lay on the bread-and-butter plate. My memories of Beverly at the end were so sharp that it was startling to see the photo of her as she was before her illness. She had been passionate about the outdoors. The photo on the front of the program was of Beverly triumphant at the end of a hike along Vancouver Island’s West Coast trail. The breath caught in my throat. With her spiky black hair, her brilliant azure eyes, and her athlete’s body, she seemed destined to live forever. She was dead before the year was out. Liz Meighen, who was seated next to me, reached over and stroked my arm.

I glanced up and saw that her eyes, too, were filled with tears. “It’s just so wrong,” she said. All I could do was nod and cover her hand with my own.

We sat with our hands touching through the brief biography of Beverly and the explanation of how the university would match funds donated if the total reached a certain point. Our first opportunity to talk came during the salad course.

“I asked to have you seated at our table,” Liz said. “I hope you don’t mind. Bev was so fond of you.”

“And I was fond of Bev. I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you when I sat down, Liz. I’m a little off my game today.”

“I’ve been off my game since Beverly’s diagnosis,” Liz said.

“You’re still the finest woman I know,” her husband said. I had seen Graham Meighen only once, and that had been at a distance at Bev’s funeral. I’d remembered him as being
attractive, and he was. His features were even; his hair was full and silvery; his tan was deep. Bev had told me once that her father had been on his university’s wrestling team, and the power of his body was still evident. He reached across his wife, extended his hand to me, and introduced himself. “I hope you know how much your friendship meant to our daughter,” he said.

My eyes stung. “She was an extraordinary person,” I said. “Zack enjoyed her company too.”

“So many people fall away when a friend is dealing with terminal illness,” Liz said. “Zack barely knew Bev before she was diagnosed, but she looked forward to his visits. She said he never treated her as if she was sick.”

“They had some spirited conversations,” I said. “They’re both such strong personalities, I wasn’t sure they’d get along, but they did. Bev said Zack was an acquired taste.”

Liz was the model of patrician civility, but for the briefest moment there was a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Graham, perhaps you and Zack should spend some time together.”

Graham was smooth. “I can’t imagine Zack and I acquiring a taste for each other’s company, but if you think it’s a good idea, Liz, we’ll give it a try. We could invite the Shreves over for a barbecue.”

Liz’s laugh, like her daughter’s, was full and throaty. “Graham, you are such a bullshitter,” she said.

Graham laughed too. “It keeps you coming back,” he said.

The servers came in with the entrée, a chicken breast stuffed with something and bathed in something else. Everyone at our table was a veteran of fundraising luncheons, so no one commented on the food. We ate as much as we could and pushed back our plates.

When dessert was served, it was time for a segment the program referred to as “Memories of Beverly.” Graham spoke
first. After he thanked everyone for coming to the luncheon, he leaned close to the microphone. His baritone was pleasantly mellow.

“From the beginning, Beverly was her own person,” he said. “When she was four, she asked me where she went after she fell asleep at night. I explained that while she slept she stayed in her bed. She considered my answer, then she said, ‘You’re wrong, Daddy.’ After she’d given the matter more thought, she said. ‘You’re wrong about a lot of things.’ ” When laughter rippled through the audience, Graham raised his hand to still it. “Oh, she wasn’t finished. Beverly never let me off the hook easily. She pondered the question for at least another thirty seconds before she made her final pronouncement. ‘Daddy, maybe you’re wrong about everything.’ And with that she wandered off to find her mother.” Graham smiled at his wife, but Liz’s face remained stony. He paused for a second, then carried on. “All her life, my daughter believed I was wrong about everything. But that didn’t stop me from loving her and it didn’t stop her from loving me.” Graham’s voice broke. He returned to our table, murmured apologies to the president of the university and his colleagues, brushed Liz’s cheek with a kiss that she seemed not to notice, then left. In Margot’s words, a smooth-as-silk performance.

As the reminiscences continued, Liz and I both kept our eyes focused on the centrepiece of vibrant multihued Gerbera daisies. Gerberas had been Bev’s favourites. We were both fighting tears and our strategy seemed to be working until the last speaker came to the podium to propose a toast. Mary Sutherland had managed the university bookstore for as long as any of us could remember. Mary’s toast to Beverly was brief and graceful. She closed with the Dr. Seuss line: “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”

We raised our glasses to Bev, sipped, and the luncheon was over. The salon emptied quickly. It was a workday and
the guests had commitments. They lined up at the tables where they could leave cheques for the scholarship and say their final farewells before leaving.

Liz and I lingered at our table for a moment, then we both picked up our things. Liz leaned across the table, plucked two gerberas from the centrepiece, handed one to me, and pressed the other inside her program. We walked downstairs in silence, crossed the lobby, and stepped through the glass doors at the gallery entrance. The rain had stopped. The sun was peering out, and the air smelled of wet leaves and grass. Liz touched my arm. “I know how busy you are, Joanne, but could you indulge me for a few minutes?”

In the year since Beverly’s death, Liz’s face had become permanently lined by sadness. I was weary, but turning down any request Liz made was unthinkable. “Of course,” I said. “But won’t Graham be waiting?”

“Graham will already be back at his office,” Liz said. “He always has urgent business to take care of. Besides, what I have in mind won’t take long. After Beverly and I visited the gallery we always went to the Mackenzie’s Outdoor Sculpture Garden. You and I don’t have to do the whole tour, but I’d like to pay a quick visit to Potter, Valadon, and Teevo.”

Liz didn’t have to explain the reference. Potter, Valadon, and Teevo were Joe Fafard’s life-sized bronze sculptures of a bull, a cow, and a calf. The three animals stood in an informal grouping on the lawn close to Albert Street. Many a harried driver, frustrated by traffic and urban life in general, had found solace in Fafard’s reminder of a simpler time.

Clearly, Liz Meighen felt a powerful connection to the animals. When we reached them, Liz went to Potter, rubbed his flank, then moved to Valadon and stroked her back. Finally, she went to Teevo, the calf, and rested her hand on his head. Her movements, as Beverly’s had been, were artless and sure. “You and Bev are so much alike,” I said.

There was sorrow in Liz’s smile. “Nothing you could have said would please me more. I miss Beverly every second of every day. I tell myself that she was in my life for thirty-eight years, and that I should be grateful for that.”

“I know. After my first husband died, I tried to hold on to the fact that we had had almost twenty good years together.”

“You wanted more,” Liz said simply. “So did I. I wanted Beverly’s to be the last face I saw before I died.” She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “But it wasn’t to be. This Friday is the anniversary of Bev’s death. I’ve been keeping very much to myself this past year. I’m going to allow myself one last day of grieving and then I’m going to rejoin the world.”

When I turned onto Halifax Street, I saw that Debbie Haczkewicz’s grey Ford Fusion was parked in front of our building. As I waited for the gate that led to our parking garage to open, I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. Standing in the wet grass looking at the Fafard cattle, I had found a measure of peace. Whatever news Debbie brought would inevitably shatter that peace. The red speedboat’s passage towards the unknown was inexorable. All I could do was hang on to the rope and hope for the best.

Debbie and Zack were at the dining room table having coffee when I came in.

“Perfect timing,” Zack said. “Debbie just told me she has some intriguing information.”

I kicked off my pumps, gave Zack a quick embrace, and took the chair next to Debbie’s. “Shoot,” I said.

Debbie raised an eyebrow. “Hold on because this one’s a doozie. Cronus named Zack as his executor and sole beneficiary.”

Zack leaned towards her. “You’re kidding.”

“No. The lawyer who handled Cronus’s will called this
morning to say that since Cronus named you as next of kin, executor, and sole beneficiary, we should deal with you.”

“Who’s the lawyer?” Zack asked.

“Darryl Colby,” Debbie said.

“The cherry on the cheesecake,” Zack said. “Darryl’s one of the few lawyers in town who really gets under my skin.”

“It’s his aftershave,” I said. “It’s industrial strength.”

“I’ll remember to conduct all my business with Mr. Colby electronically,” Debbie said.

“I won’t have that option.” Zack rubbed his eyes. “You know, this really is sad. I barely knew Cronus. To me, he was just another case.”

“Well, you obviously meant something more to him,” Debbie said.

Zack’s face was sombre. “I know, and I’ll do everything that needs to be done. I’m assuming you won’t be releasing the body for the foreseeable future.”