The Brutal Heart (22 page)

“Us,” I said. “Lucky you wore your pretty tie.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Jo, how do you think Ginny should handle this publicly? It’s not just a question of optics; her behaviour could have ramifications down the line.”

“Legal ramifications?”

“Yes. If this comes to trial – which I hope to God it doesn’t – Ginny’s behaviour in the next few hours could be significant.”

“You can’t expect her to perform, Zack. She must still be in shock. Whatever her feelings were about Jason, seeing him like that must have been a nightmare.”

“Ginny’s strong – she’ll do what she has to do.”

“Then have her issue a brief statement expressing her shock and sorrow and asking that the media respect her children’s right to privacy at this sad time.”

Zack grunted. “You really think the media are going to buy into that?”

“Reporters have kids of their own. They should know when to draw the line.”

“How about the voters? What do you think Jason’s death does to Ginny’s election chances?”

“It finishes them,” I said simply. “Ginny may not have been charged, but the suspicion that she had something to do with his murder is there. And purely pragmatically, she needs to be campaigning, but the moment she steps out in public, she’s fair game – the press can ask her whatever they want.”

“So she just holes up in her condo until this blows over?”

“It beats the alternative.” I pointed at the media vans. “Those vans are going to be a permanent fixture till the police figure out what happened to Jason.”

“Any suggestions? Deb isn’t going to let Ginny leave the jurisdiction.”

“Lawyers’ Bay is near Regina. It’s a gated community, and we have a guest house sitting there empty.”

Zack smiled approvingly. “Good plan, Ms. Shreve.” He glared at the media. “Time to face the ravening hoards.” He opened his door and reached into the backseat for his chair. The
TV
people were on him like the proverbial ticks on a dog. Zack unfolded his chair and gave them his barracuda smile. “How about backing off until I get into my chair? And, incidentally, the answer is ‘no comment.’ ”

The bravest of the group stood his ground. “We haven’t asked anything yet,” he said.

“Whatever you ask, that’s the answer.” Zack slid into its seat and wheeled towards the condo. I stayed right behind him.

There were six of us at the meeting: Ginny, Keith, Margot, Sean Barton, Zack, and me. Ginny was sitting cross-legged on the window seat. Framed by a wash of blue sky, her open-necked white shirt crisp, Ginny could have been an ad for the benefits of condo living, but her face was pale and her eyes unfocused. We exchanged muted greetings, then Zack moved close enough to Ginny to take her hand. He always connected physically with his clients. It was, he said, his way of telegraphing to a judge or jury that his clients were human beings in whom he believed.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Okay. Telling the kids was rough.”

“How are they doing?”

“I’m glad they have each other.”

“Joanne has an idea that should help,” Zack said. He glanced at me.

“I thought you and the girls might like to get away for a few days,” I said.

Ginny’s eyes moved to Zack. “Will the police let me do that?”

“I’ll talk to the inspector in charge of the case and see. I think I can get her to agree. The cottage we own is just forty-five minutes from the city, so if the police have questions you can be at headquarters in an hour. I think as a good faith gesture, you should stay in town till tomorrow night. By then the first rush of questions will be over. That’ll also give you a chance to issue a short statement expressing your shock and sadness about Jason’s death and asking the media to respect your daughters’ right to privacy at this sad time.”

Ginny nodded. “I should also make certain everyone knows I’m still in the race.”

“Good point,” Keith said. “But we have to make sure we get the balance of regret and determination right in your statement. Incidentally, Jo’s right about getting out of town. If you’re here, you’ll be getting ugly questions, and every story will link your name with Jason’s.”

Ginny’s laugh was grim. “Ginny Monaghan, ex-wife of murdered businessman Jason Brodnitz, dropped in on a daycare centre today.”

“You’ve got it.” Keith said. “Let’s get the statement out, then talk about how we can handle the campaign without Ginny.”

Crafting a short statement that conveyed both sorrow and grit proved daunting, and as everyone worked on the wording, my mind drifted to the day my own father died, and I felt an almost palpable connection to Ginny’s daughters, sequestered somewhere in the condo. Finally, I got up and walked over to Ginny. “Would it be all right if I talked to the girls? I thought I could mention the cottage.”

Ginny nodded. “Actually, I’d appreciate that. I don’t know quite what to do there. I think they’re in Em’s room – down the hall, second door on the left.”

When I knocked, both twins came to the door. They’d been crying, but they were poised. “Were you looking for the bathroom?” one of the twins said.

“Actually, I was looking for you. Could we talk for a minute?”

“Sure. Come on in.”

The room had the usual teenage clutter, plus an impressive array of home-gym equipment: a treadmill, a stationary bike, a step bench, and an assortment of free weights. “If you can find a place to sit, sit,” one of the twins said.

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m sorry. I really can’t tell you two apart. You’re …?”

“Chloe,” she said.

I cleared off a corner of the bed and told them about the cottage. As they listened, some of the misery drained from their faces. “That would solve one of our problems,” Em said, snaking her arm around her sister’s waist. “It’s hard to know what you’re supposed to do when your father dies.”

“I remember that,” I said. “Sitting in my room while my mother was downstairs talking to people.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen. My father died an hour before my sweet sixteen birthday party was supposed to start. My mother made me promise not to tell the guests because she’d gone to a great deal of trouble arranging things, and she didn’t want the party ruined.”

Chloe’s jaw dropped. “She must have been a witch.”

“She was,” I said.

“So what did you do?” Em said.

“I went to the party. It was being held at a place called the Granite Club in Toronto – very classy. I told my best friend, Sally, what had happened. She knew one of the boys who worked in the bar, and she got him to give us a bottle of cherry brandy and a package of Rothmans. We went outside and drank the brandy and smoked the cigarettes until I threw up on my dress. Then we went to my sweet sixteen.”

Chloe’s eyes were huge. “Your mother must have been furious.”

“She didn’t talk to me for a month.”

The corners of Em’s mouth twitched into a smile. “But it was worth it, eh?”

I nodded. “It was worth it.”

“So what did your dad do for a living?” Em asked. Her tone was casual, but as she waited for my answer, she was intent.

“He was a doctor.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” she said. “Not like us.”

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” I said.

“Right,” Chloe said. “We’re the incredible Brodnitz twins. Too bad our father was a pimp.”

“Let it go,” her sister said. “He’s dead.”

“But we’re not,” Chloe said, and she ran from the room.

Em’s eyes flashed with anger. “There are times when I hate both my parents.” She inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “Coach would say that’s a waste of my energy.”

“Coach would be right. Em, is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yes,” she said wearily. “Wait three minutes and go knock on Chloe’s door. She didn’t thank you for the cottage, and if she doesn’t do the right thing, she beats herself up for days.”

Chloe’s room was immaculate; so were her manners as she apologized for losing her temper and for neglecting to thank me for offering their family the cottage. As I walked back to the meeting, I knew that being Chloe Brodnitz had never been easy, but it was about to become a lot harder.

By the time I returned to the meeting, the statement had been drafted and the focus had shifted to tasks.

Keith spoke first. “Six days to E-Day, and Ginny, unless there’s a miracle, I don’t think you’re going to be able to campaign. My thought is that we establish a group, the Friends of Ginny Monaghan – high-profile, well-respected people who will go into the community and act as your surrogates. What do you think?”

Ginny’s smile was wan. “Looks good on paper, Keith. Let me know if there’s a stampede when you ask for volunteers to risk their reputation for an alleged sexaholic who may have murdered her ex-husband, the pimp.”

Keith didn’t flinch. “Well, you’re looking at volunteer number one,” he said. “As for the rest, you underestimate your power, kiddo.”

Ginny bit her lip. “Thanks,” she said. “I should have known …”

Margot had been quiet during the discussion. Now she was ready to contribute. “Well, before there’s an Oprah moment here, I’m appointing myself the Friend of Jason Brodnitz.”

Zack looked at her curiously. “That’s a new wrinkle. Not many lawyers continue working for a client after he’s dead.”

“I do,” Margot said sharply. “Jason may have been a lot of things, but he wasn’t a pimp. I’ve dealt with those guys and they always made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I never got that with him.” Margot turned to Ginny. “I know this may seem as if I’m not on your side, but I am. I have a sense that when I find out the truth about him, I’m going to find out who would have a reason to want him dead.”

Zack shot his new partner a hard look. “You’re wasting your time, Margot. The police are digging into every aspect of Brodnitz’s life even as we speak.”

“I have my own sources,” Margot said.

“Who?”

“Mandy Avilia and my sister, Laurie. One of them will know who Cristal’s boyfriend was, and I’m putting my money on the boyfriend as our bad guy.”

“I’ll come along,” Sean said. “I’m working with Zack on this. I may pick up something useful.”

Margot caught my eye. It was just a flicker, but I knew she didn’t want Sean along.

“Round-trip it’s a five-hour drive, Sean,” I said. “Zack won’t be able to spare you for that long. I’ll go with Margot. I met Mandy Avilia at Cristal’s funeral. We didn’t have a chance to talk that day, and I have some questions of my own.”

“So, it’s settled then,” Margot said briskly. She stood and smoothed her skirt. And with that we went our separate ways.

Zack and Sean stayed behind to discuss the case with Ginny, but Keith, Margot, and I left together. When the elevator doors closed, Keith chuckled. “That was a pretty smooth manoeuvre you two pulled off. I don’t think Sean knew what hit him.”

“I disagree,” I said. “Sean doesn’t miss much.”

“I don’t like that boy a bit,” Margot said. “You’ve done your good deed, Joanne. The prospect of a day with Sean did not set my girlish heart a-flutter, but you don’t have to come to Wadena.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’m tired of sitting around, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I want this to be over, Margot. Let’s go to Wadena and find out what we can.”

Margot looked at me approvingly. “You know, I think you and I are going to get along just fine. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at nine.”

Our cottage was in an area called Lawyers’ Bay. The spot had been named in the 1940s with a sneer by locals nettled by the fact that Henry Hynd, a Regina lawyer, had snapped up the horseshoe of land fringing the prettiest bay on the lake. Henry and his wife, Winifred, were long-range thinkers. They planned a big family, and their dream was that their children would grow, marry, build cottages of their own on Lawyers’ Bay, where Henry and Winifred (who was called Freddy by friend and foe alike) would watch them swim and grow during the hot months of summer.

But life has a way of scuttling plans. When the Hynds’ first child, a son, was born, Freddy almost died. Lawyers’ Bay remained undeveloped until their son, Henry Junior, also a lawyer, married Harriet and they produced a single child, Kevin. Our cottages had come about because Kevin Hynd, in his first year at law school, found a family in four students in his first-year class. After Kevin and his friends graduated and became successful law partners, they built the cottages that Henry and Freddy Hynd had dreamed of.

By the time Zack and I married, Henry Senior and Freddy had gone to their respective rewards, and Henry Junior and Harriet were living in cozy proximity in an assisted-living home in Regina. The families occupying the lake homes that dotted Lawyers’ Bay bore little resemblance to the senior Hynds’ dream of happy families in cottages with squeaky doors, sandy floors, and guest books with wooden covers, of memories that focused on good times and good coffee.

Kevin never married; Blake Falconer’s marriage ended in tragedy; Chris Altieri committed suicide; Delia Wainberg married a man who graduated bottom of their class at law school and never practised law but found joy in raising their daughter and in creating life-sized woodcarvings of animals and people. And there was Zack, who, when we met, had been the most successful and solitary of them all. He had built his cottage at the urging of his partners. He hired a housekeeper, bought a big, expensive boat; then, except for the three long weekends of summer, he forgot about the place. That changed when we got together.

From the beginning I loved the cottage. The architect had understood the importance of light, and there were enough windows and skylights to please even me. Because of Zack’s wheelchair, all the rooms were large and all the doorways wide. Zack had handed the interior designer a blank cheque and told him to do whatever he thought would work. The decision had been wise.

The designer had chosen the coolest of monochromes for the walls; sleekly unobtrusive furniture for the public rooms, and abstract art throughout the house that was pleasing but not challenging. Only the concert-sized Steinway and the collection of moths mounted in shadow boxes were of Zack’s choosing.

When Zack and I married, he told me to make whatever changes I wanted to. I didn’t change a thing. The large uncluttered spaces were great for a family that included a man in a wheelchair, a daughter still at home who had many friends, two granddaughters, two big dogs, and two cats. I liked the spare decor and the hardwood floors. My favourite room was the sunroom that overlooked the lake. The designer had found a partners’ table at a country auction – a massive piece with twelve matching chairs. It was ornate, out of fashion, and, for that reason, dirt cheap.