The Early Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn (16 page)

“A thousand years ago.”

“Well, Ian and I were going to be those fiery twin stars Lawrence talks about, separate and dazzling. And then …”

“Ian got into politics,” Howard finished for me.

“And I got pregnant. Scratch one star. We were twenty-eight that first election. Mieka was born on E-day, remember?”

Howard laughed. “Sure. I always tell Mieka she showed great wisdom in waiting for the New Jerusalem to be established before she was born.”

“It didn’t seem like the New Jerusalem to me. Suddenly I was a mother, and I was married to a twenty-eight-year-old who was attorney-general of the province and who didn’t have a clue about how to run the A-G’s office.”

“Jo, none of us had a clue about anything. All those kids we ran – we figured the young guys could lose their cherries on that first campaign and the next time out, well, maybe we’d get close, and then, well …” He reached over and patted my knee awkwardly. “Do you remember the results coming in that night? Did they bring you a
TV
into the delivery room?”

“Howard!” I groaned.

“Yeah, I guess not. Anyway, when I watched the results that night I just about dirtied my drawers. My God! First of all to win, and then to win and have nothing but kids to form a government.” His voice grew serious. “Ian was always so good, Jo. I can count on one hand the number of times he screwed up when he was A-G. And he was smart enough to keep the constituency stuff humming. Except –” he looked at me quickly “– that was because you were there, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, Jo. I should’ve known that.”

“Howard, it was too long ago to feel guilt about, and I’m too old to enjoy making you feel guilty. It just happened. The political stuff came my way by default. I liked it. I was good at it, and it was something I could do while I was having kids. Another thing – it really mattered. It was important work. But Howard, Marty knew that, too. She really did. No matter what she says now. We’re all revisionists when it comes to our own lives.”

“Tell me, Jo.” Howard’s words were so quiet, I could barely hear him above the hum of the engine and the swish of the miles passing by. “Tell me how Marty was in the old days.”

“Let’s see. I guess the first time I saw her was a couple of weeks after the election. It was my first outing after Mieka was born, so of course I brought her along. Do you remember? Somebody had the bright idea that we should go out into the rural areas to show off the new team. A bunch of us went to hell and gone out into the country …”

“McCallister Valley,” he said. “Remembrance Day. I remember. The year it rained right up until Christmas Eve. Damnedest thing I ever saw. Of course, the opposition made a big thing of it. Charlie Pratt was still leader then and he made one hell of a speech in the House. All about God’s anger manifesting itself because the people had turned their backs on the one true party, and about how Charlie and his gang
would have to build an ark to save the province – metaphorically, of course. The old bastard …” He was laughing.

“Anyway,” I said, “you and Marty had been to some formal thing in the city, and she hadn’t changed.”

“And” – Howard’s face softened at the memory – “just before we got to McCallister Valley, our car got stuck in the gumbo, and Marty took off her shoes and stockings, jammed a shoe in each coat pocket and walked barefoot through the mud.”

“Ian and I were waiting in the hall,” I said, picking up the story, “and someone yelled, ‘Here’s the premier.’ I’d never met you, and my heart stopped. The premier and his wife! They threw open the doors to the Elks’ Hall, and there you were and there was Marty with the skirt of her evening gown hiked up to her thighs. She was solid mud from the kneecaps down, but she had such a great smile.”

We were both laughing. Howard wiped his eyes. “You should have heard her on the way home in the car – but not a peep out of her at the dinner. I’ll give her that. She was always the gracious lady in public. Not like …”

“Not like Eve.”

“No, not like Eve.” His voice had a familiar edge of exasperation.

For a while we reminisced about old times, then Howard turned the radio on. We listened to it and gossiped till Howard pulled up in front of the house on Eastlake Avenue. The place was still standing, and I sighed with relief.

“All’s well in Jo’s universe?” Howard asked.

“No,” I said, “but I’ll survive. What flight are you taking tomorrow?”

“The 1:30 – gets you into Toronto in time for the rush hour along the 401 – all the charms of metropolitan life Marty’s always talking about.”

“Need a lift to the airport?” I said.

“Yeah,” Howard said, “that would be nice.”

“Well,” I said.

“Well,” he said, gently mocking.

“Well,” I said, “I’d better get in there before the boys start flicking the porch light on and off at us.”

Howard reached over and covered my hand with his. In the moonlight his face was silvery grey – like an image on black-and-white television. “I’m really going to miss you. Ian was a lucky man.”

I leaned over and kissed his cheek. The smell of his body was familiar and comforting – Scotch and lemony aftershave. “I’m going to miss you, too, Marty’s a lucky woman. Damn it, everybody’s leaving me.” I grabbed my bag and ran up the stairs before he could see I was crying.

The kids had managed fine. The house was clean enough. The tuna casserole I’d left for dinner the first night was in the refrigerator next to the freezer container of chili I’d left for the second night. There were two pizza boxes and a half dozen Big Gulp containers in the garbage, but the boys were showered and in bed watching
M*A*S*H
reruns and being civil to one another, so I counted my blessings. I sat on Peter’s bed and watched the end of the program with them. When it was over, I filled them in on Mieka’s new house, showered and got into my robe. I was careful to look the other way when I passed Mieka’s room. I went downstairs, put on the kettle for tea, changed my mind, pulled out a lemon and some honey and made myself a hot lemon and rum. Just as I poured the hot water into the mug, the phone rang.

Mieka, I thought, or Howard, knowing I was having a hard time. But it wasn’t either of them. The voice was male and familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“Joanne, do you use smoked or barbecued salmon in that mousse?”

“Whatever’s cheaper.”

“What a sensible woman you are. Sorry to call so late, but I’m having people in for breakfast and I’m not a morning person.” I still couldn’t place that voice. Keep him talking.

“It bakes two hours. You’ll be up all night.”

“I’m setting the alarm so I can lumber out of bed and grab it out of the oven. Although why I’m going to all this trouble for that preening cow of a minister is beyond me.”

That sleepy, intimate voice that curled around words with such affection – “Rick. Rick Spenser. I’m sorry. I just didn’t make the connection with your voice for a minute.”

“Joanne, I’m the one who should apologize. Damn. I hate people who assume you know who they are. Forgive me for being a narcissistic ass. Let me start again. How was your day?”

“We were on safer ground with the mousse. My day was lousy. I just left my beautiful little girl alone with her new housemate who is also her boyfriend. And Howard Dowhanuik, who is, I guess, my best male friend in the world, just told me he’s moving to Toronto to teach a class at Osgoode Hall.”

The voice on the other end of the line was suddenly alert and professional. “Is that for public consumption?”

“I don’t see why not. Classes start this week, and he’s leaving tomorrow. I feel like Little Orphan Annie.”

“Then I’m glad I called. I wouldn’t dream of trying to fill Mieka’s place, but do you think I could try out for temporary status as your best male friend?”

I laughed. “Well, they’re not exactly standing in line here.”

“I warn you, Joanne. I take my obligations as a friend seriously.”

I took Rick at his word, and brought him up to date on everything that had happened since the last time we’d talked. At the end of it all I said, “That business about the sister really threw me. There’s something terrible about discovering people’s secrets. It’s such a violation. If you want out, I’ll understand.”

“No, no, certainly not.” He sounded as if he meant it. “Joanne, if I were there with you, I’d open a vein and become your blood brother, but since I’m in Ottawa, I’ll do what our senators do. I’ll swear an oath holding onto my testicles.”

We both laughed, the balance between us restored. “I think that was the Roman senators, not our guys.”

“Well, whoever held onto whatever … I, Rick Spenser, do solemnly swear to be friends with Joanne Kilbourn.”

“Till death us do part?” I asked, laughing.

“Till death us do part,” he repeated, but he didn’t sound as if he were laughing.

The next three weeks went by in a haze of activity. Angus hated his grade-eight teacher on sight, but we decided dealing with her would be character-building. Peter made the football team, and I started to research Andy’s biography.

We all missed Mieka.

Our routine was the same as ever: a morning run with the dogs, breakfast, school, an early supper, ball, homework, bed. Saturday mornings we went to the Lakeshore Club. I added another fifteen minutes of laps to my time in the pool because I didn’t have Mieka to gossip with in the dressing room any more.

Life went on.

Before I opened my eyes on the first morning in October I knew it was raining. The air that came in through my bedroom window smelled of wet leaves and cold. I turned on the bedside lamp, and it made a comforting pool of yellow light in the room. I switched on the radio and a woman’s voice, chuckling and ersatz matronly, said it was raining cats and dogs in Regina and Saskatoon. Raining on me and Mieka alike – it seemed like a good sign. I hollered at the boys to
hit the showers and went downstairs. The kitchen door had blown open in the night and the floor was wet and cold on my bare feet. I coaxed the dogs out for a run in the rain, turned on the coffee and picked up the telephone. It was 7:00 a.m. If I called right away, I could catch Dave Micklejohn at home. He answered on the first ring.

“Dave, have you eaten yet?”

“No, I was just dropping an egg in to poach.”

“Well, don’t poach. Let me get the kids fed and off to school and I’ll take you out for breakfast.”

“Jo, it’s so good to hear your voice. How about the clubhouse at the Par Three in half an hour? There won’t be a soul there today, and they make great cinnamon buns.”

“Sounds good to me, but make it an hour,” I said, but he’d already hung up. Dave hates to use the telephone.

The Par Three clubhouse is the best-kept secret in the south end. It’s a queer-looking six-sided building with lots of glass so you have the sense of being on the greens when you eat. It’s a mom-and-pop operation – on one side of the building Mom takes greens fees and rents clubs; on the other, Pop runs a little restaurant that offers breakfasts and sandwiches. Mom’s and Pop’s real names are Edythe and Al. I know this only because they have twin leather belts that have their names burned cowboy style into the backs. Why they bought the Par Three is a mystery. They are people who do nothing to encourage the loyalty or affection of their clientele. However, they have pride in what they do – Edythe’s greens are always as perfectly manicured as the flawless ovals of her mauve nails, and Al’s baking is the best in the city.

When I pulled in behind the clubhouse, Dave’s Bronco, as shiny and red as a Halloween apple, was the only vehicle in the parking lot. Through the window, I could see Dave behind the counter pouring coffee. It didn’t surprise me that he was on terms of trust with Al and Edythe. Dave
was finicky, too. He handed me a cup as soon as I walked in the door.

“Saw you coming, Jo, and thought you could use some warming.” He put his hands on my shoulders, stood back and looked at me critically. “You’re looking weary.”

“Dave, you always tell all of us that – I’m fine, honestly.”

The window over the table Dave directed me to was open and the table was wet with rain but the air smelled so fresh that I left the window open. The rain splashed down on the empty golf course and the sky was grey with clouds, but we were safe in the warmth, and it felt good.

We ate our cinnamon buns and talked small talk – news about my kids, gossip about the leadership convention, which had been set for December. Craig Evanson had announced the day before, and already was the odds-on favourite. Apparently Andy had been right about how long people would remember his dismissive comment about Craig. When we finished eating, Dave brought the coffeepot over from the counter, filled our cups, put it back, sat down again and looked steadily at me.

“Well, Jo, what can I do for you?”

“I don’t think it’s going to be too hard, Dave. I just need some information. It’s about that auburn-haired woman you were talking to after Andy’s funeral – you know, the mystery woman that the paper got such a great shot of the day Andy died.”

Dave’s eyes shifted toward the window. “Look at that bird out there in the parking lot, Jo. Can you tell what it is from here? It looks like a little Hungarian partridge, but it’s hard to tell with all that rain.”

I didn’t say anything.

Dave didn’t look at me. He kept his eyes focused on the parking lot where the bird was hopping through the water that was pooling in a little depression near my car.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping our coffee, waiting. Finally, he shrugged. He seemed to have made up his mind about something. “I guess it doesn’t make any difference now that Andy’s gone. I never could understand why there had to be a big mystery anyway. The woman’s name is Lane Appleby. Her husband was Charlie Appleby. They’re Winnipeg people. At least, Charlie was from Winnipeg. He died a couple of years ago. A lot of money from real estate, I think, but, of course, people recognize his name from hockey. He used to play for the Montreal Royals, but when he retired, he went to Manitoba, made a bundle and bought the Winnipeg team. He poured about a million dollars into it and got them some slick new uniforms and a new name.”