The Early Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn (19 page)

“But how does he do it?”

Unexpectedly, she giggled and leaned across the table. “Mark says Soren gets our money by” – and she whispered – “by cuddling up to rich widows.”

“The Charlie Appleby Prayer Centre must have taken a lot of cuddling.”

“Oh, Mrs. Kilbourn” – she laughed softly – “aren’t we awful?” She looked at her watch. “Oh, fudge. I’m late. Thanks for being so understanding. This is my treat.”

“Lori, just one thing. Could you and Mark keep an eye on Mrs. Boychuk for me? She’s having a hard time.” Lori was nodding vigorously again. Grief and adjustment – we were on safe ground. “Please let me know if she gets too sad or … “I thought. “If she just isn’t herself.”

Lori seemed to know what I meant. “A change,” she said, nodding gravely. “I should let you know if there’s any change in her.”

“Yes,” I said, “a change. That’s the word.”
When Soren Eames came out of his office to greet me, he did indeed look like the kind of man rich widows would pay to be cuddled by.

“Black Irish,” my grandmother had said the first time I brought Ian to her narrow house on Yorkville Avenue. “Skin like milk, nose like Gregory Peck and broody eyes. You can always spot them. They’re passionate men, but often insane.” She’d been right, at least in part, about Ian, and Soren Eames had the same dark good looks that my husband had, that my sons have.

I hadn’t had a chance to get a good look at Soren Eames until that moment. He was older than I remembered. He was balding; there were hairbreadth lines around his eyes; and he was much too thin. But, romantic as it sounds, you could feel the fire there.

He played on that romantic sense, too. He was all in black again, and he had rolled his sleeves back past the wrist to show off his hands. They were artist’s hands, very white, with long, tapered fingers.

He smiled and offered his arm. “Let’s walk a little.” I would have given odds I was about to go on the widow’s tour – the crowded classrooms, the too-small dorms itching for endowment – but he surprised me. We walked away from the college, behind the
CAP
Centre, over the construction rubble to a hill. As we climbed toward the sun, the air was hot and acrid. It smelled of burning rubber and stubble fires lit by farmers. At the top of the hill was a little windbreak of trees and in front of them a rock, smooth and ancient. Soren Eames gestured me to sit down, and then sat beside me.

Below I could see the whole of Wolf River Bible College. With its neat rows of buildings and lines of yellow aspens, it was, from this distance, as theatrically unreal as the model children who sat in its classrooms and walked across its
lawns. Beside me, his profile sharp and oddly youthful in the haze, Soren Eames looked at his vision realized.

It was enough to make me toss my cookies. I had spent too much time around people who cruised from photo opportunity to photo opportunity to tolerate this.

“Very impressive,” I said.

“Very impressive, but you’re not impressed,” Eames said, and I was surprised to hear his voice shake. Normally that vulnerability would have touched me, but not today. There were things I needed to know.

“It’s a beautiful setup. Lori Evanson tells me you raised money for most of the new buildings. You must have raised a million dollars.”

“More,” he said flatly.

“And the Charlie Appleby Prayer Centre,” I said. “For the past few months Andy was after me to take twenty minutes to come in off the highway and look at it. He thought it was a really great building.”

Eames was silent. I could see his pulse beating in his throat. He swallowed. I wasn’t going to be deflected.

“How did you come to know Charlie Appleby?”

“I didn’t. It was his wife. She just appeared one day.”

“And what happened?”

“Nothing. She came. I told her what we needed. She said, ‘Do it, and I’ll write the cheque.’ ”

“Just like that? That’s a rather spectacular act of philanthropy, Mr. Eames. A stranger comes in off the street and, with a stroke of her pen, grants your wish. Didn’t it seem a little – I don’t know – whimsical to you?”

“Widows, especially in those first months after their husbands’ deaths, are often a little whimsical, Mrs. Kilbourn. You’ll have to accept it on faith as I did. The
CAP
Centre was a good thing for Lane Appleby. She took quite an interest in it – spent a lot of weekends in Wolf River when it was going
up. She’s been a good friend to the college, and I’d rather not say anything more about her.” He sounded ineffably sad.

The silence fell between us again, and I didn’t want it to. I knew there was a missing piece of Andy’s life in Wolf River. I didn’t know the shape of the piece I was looking for, but I did know that I needed to keep Soren Eames talking.

“Anyway, it’s an accomplishment,” I said lamely.

“But you question the value of that accomplishment,” he said softly.

I turned and looked at him. He was close to forty, and in the harsh morning sun every mark of living showed. But there was such vulnerability in his face, and something else – Fear? Hope?

It struck me suddenly that he was as tired of this aimless circling as I was. He had, after all, telephoned me. He wanted something, too. But neither of us would get anywhere till we cleared the air. I took a deep breath and waded in.

“All right, Mr. Eames –”

“Soren,” he corrected gently.

“All right, Soren, I’m mystified. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’m a widow, but I’m not the kind of widow you’re interested in. I’m not rich. I can’t underwrite anything or give the school an endowment.” He winced, but I didn’t stop. “I don’t know why I’m getting the tour. What possible difference can it make to you what I think of all this?”

I looked into his face. It was hard to believe that this was the Miracle Man of Wolf River. The persona of the confident charismatic was as remote from this shattered man as the moon. When he spoke his voice was almost inaudible, but there was no mistaking his words.

“I wanted you to think well of me, Joanne. I wanted …” His voice broke. “I’m sorry. This isn’t working out. I’m sorry. I just wanted you not to have contempt for me. We can go
back now if you want.” As we walked down the hill, the air between us was heavy with things unsaid. Like quarrelling lovers, we walked in silence.

When I pulled up in front of the house on Eastlake Avenue, a woman from a courier service was coming down our walk. I signed a form, took a fat striped envelope from her and went inside. It had been a while since we’d done any housework. The living room was not a disaster, but it wasn’t great. The boys had had lunch in front of the television. They had cleared away the dishes, but the coffee table was dusty with sandwich crumbs, and there were rings from their milk glasses. From talk at dinner lately, I knew the World Series was on. Angus had resurrected his baseball cards, and they were in unassailable piles on the sideboard in the dining room. The afternoon sun blazed through the window and turned the crystal vase Rick had given me to fire, but the daisies I had put in it last week were wilting, and the table it stood on was layered with dust.

I had two hours before the boys came home. I could clean house. If I started right away, things would be shining by supper. Or I could make a pot of tea, head for the granny flat, sit in the cool and read through the stuff Rick had sent.

It was the day before my birthday. My last day as a forty-five-year-old. The choice was easy. While I was waiting for the kettle to boil, I dumped the daisies and went into the backyard with a pair of scissors. I cut a generous bunch of giant marigolds, came back inside and filled the vase with fresh water and arranged the flowers. Their smell, sharp and fall-like, filled with room with other autumns, autumns when the kids were little and they’d go off to school with bunches of marigolds wrapped in waxed paper for their teachers. At that moment the mysteries of Andy Boychuk’s
life seemed just the antidote I needed for the realities of mine. I made a pot of tea, poured a cup and took it and the courier envelope to the granny flat.

The place was beginning to have a comforting order. I had moved the desk in front of the window overlooking the garden. I worked better when I could see the big house and the shadows of the kids passing by the windows every so often. There had been enough rain in September to brighten the asters and the zinnias and the marigolds, so the garden was pretty to look at. But I couldn’t smell it. The windows of the granny flat, energy efficient, satisfaction guaranteed, sealed out dust and the smell of late summer garden alike.

I had come up with a filing system that any professional researcher would laugh at, but that I thought would work for me. I had labelled a vertical file for every year of Andy’s life, and into each file I was dumping everything that happened in a particular year, not just to Andy but to the people around him: his family, his friends, his colleagues. When I told Rick Spenser about it, there had been silence. For his research he had devised a computer program with a Byzantine system of cross-references. But I liked my files. We don’t live in a vacuum, and my vertical files took that into account.

Finding material was easy. The Caucus Office had boxes of stuff and already the files on Andy’s political years were bulging. So when I opened the envelope and a fat package marked “Eve Lorscott Boychuk: Family,” slid out, I eyed the 1963 file speculatively.

There was a half-inch-thick stack of clippings on Tudor Lorscott. I scanned them quickly. The usual corporate publicity: head shots of Eve’s father looking pleased to be appointed to the board of some company or to be heading up a charity drive. There were notices of business acquisitions by Lorscott Limited – some solid, unspectacular stuff, but a
surprising number of gold and nickel mines. Old Tudor was a high roller. And then – bonanza – a feature article from the old
Star Weekly:
“The Lorscott Case – The Family Behind the Headlines.” There was not much information beyond what Howard Dowhanuik had told me that night a thousand years ago in Saskatoon, but there was a haunting picture taken, the
Weekly
article noted, greedily licking its chops, less than a week before the murder attempt. It was a colour photo, taken in the living room of the family home in Port Durham – a lovely room, all lemon yellow and ivory, with a glowing abstract over the fireplace and a graceful bowl of iris and tulips and yellow anemone on the glass coffee table. In the forefront of the picture the three Lorscott women sit on a silk-covered love seat behind the coffee table and the spring flowers. Madeline Lorscott, as old as Eve is now, a little heavy in middle age, dark-haired still, worried-looking, is flanked by her daughters, slim young women in smooth, sleeveless A-line dresses with matching pumps, Eve’s dress cornflower blue, Nancy’s mint green. Their dark hair, like their mother’s, is fluffed into bouffants that flip girlishly at shoulder level – the Jackie look. Behind them, leaning over the couch, one heavy-fingered hand resting on (or gripping?) the shoulder of each of his daughters, is Tudor Lorscott. His chin just grazes the top of his wife’s hair, and his look is smug, proprietary: “This is mine.” Tudor Lorscott, lord of the manor. A man to be envied.

The final photos are fuzzy grey-and-white reprints of wire-service pictures. The newspapers’ invariable records of crime and punishment: the crime scene, the arrest, the trial, a sequence as familiar to us now as photos of Shirley Temple and Deanna Durbin were to our parents. Except this is Eve Boychuk’s family. The figures on the stretchers being loaded into the ambulance are Eve’s father and mother. The tanned, lithe figure in a white turtleneck sweater and capri pants,
looking disconcertingly ordinary in the sea of uniforms, is Eve’s sister, Nancy. The girl with the dead eyes, raising her hand against the camera as if to ward off a blow, is Eve.

The account of the trial was surprisingly circumspect. Even in a city where a circulation war between the two evening papers was always on the boil, reporters couldn’t find much juice in an attempted murder trial where no one would say anything.

But there were pictures and there were captions: a picture of the alleged weapon – a small hatchet, wooden-handled, Nancy Lorscott’s old Girl Guide hatchet but fitted with a new steel head with a cutting edge like a razor; a close-up of a bloody Tudor Lorscott as he was wheeled into the hospital. (“How did he look?” asked the
Examiner’s
reporter. “He looked,” said the reliable source, “as if someone tried to cut off his head and his private parts.”)

There was a brief account of the sentencing: the judge’s decision that Nancy Lorscott should be committed to the Middlesex Prison for the Criminally Insane (a sentence later commuted to indefinite treatment in a private sanitarium). But of the trial itself, not much beyond a dry recital of the exchange of legalisms between the Crown and the defence, the expert testimony of the expert witnesses, and a running account of what the Lorscott women wore to court.

Of course, there were many pictures of Eve – the only accessible Lorscott during those weeks after the assault. Eve getting out of her car in front of the handsome Victorian hall that served as Port Durham’s courtroom building; Eve visiting the hospital where her parents were convalescing; Eve coming out of her dentist’s office. And always the same small smile and the same dead eyes.

Eve Lorscott was twenty years old in 1963. Enough trauma there to last a lifetime. But this was not Eve’s last trauma.
Nor, if one believed the speculations of the psychiatrist called by Nancy’s lawyers, was it her first.

Poor Eve. Poor, poor Eve.

I was trying to find the Eve I knew in the tiny grey face in the newspaper photo when the telephone rang. It was Soren Eames, and he sounded awful. Whatever shreds of pride had impelled him to take me down the hill without accomplishing what he had set out to accomplish were gone. There were no courtly preambles this time.

“Joanne, I have to see you.”

And then, when I didn’t answer immediately, he apologized.

“I’m sorry for what happened at Wolf River. I’m doing a lot to make myself unhappy these days.” His voice trailed off and, for a beat, there was silence on the other end of the line. When he spoke again, his voice sounded better – if not strong at least assured and in control. “Joanne, I’m on a really life-denying trajectory now, and I need to talk. I can be at your place in an hour. Tonight or tomorrow – which?”