The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn (32 page)

On the night Tom Kelsoe met them, Karen’s boys were doing what they had done most nights since their mother’s death. They were getting even with the men who lived in the world that killed their mother.

When he finished, Tom Kelsoe bowed his head. Then he picked up a copy of his book from the table beside him. “I’m proud of every page of this book,” he said softly. “I’m proud because Darrel and Jason Keewatin have read their story and they tell me I’ve got it right. I’m proud because in here you’ll discover what it feels like to live inside the skin of those who live without hope.” His voice cracked. “And I’m proud because in the dedication I’m able to make a first payment on the immeasurable debt I owe to the man who was my teacher and my friend.” He opened the book and read. “For Reed Gallagher, with respect and thanks.”

There was silence; then Tom did a curious thing. He turned towards Ed Mariani, and held out his hand. After a moment that seemed to last forever, Ed walked over to Tom and shook his hand. It was a gesture as generous as it was characteristic. Everyone liked Ed, and the memory of Tom’s rudeness to him was fresh. By his handshake, Ed made it possible for people to respond openly to Tom’s reading, and
they did. It was as if a breach had been made in the wall of emotion that had been held in check since we heard about Reed’s death. People stood and applauded. More than a few of them wept; when I looked across the room, I was surprised to see the future Frank Gifford, Jumbo Hryniuk, crying lustily into his handkerchief. Beside him, dry-eyed but transfixed, was Val Massey. Even from where I was standing, I could see the glow of hero worship. At that moment, Tom Kelsoe was everything Val Massey dreamed of becoming.

A bookseller appeared and hustled Tom to the table of books.
Getting Even
was launched, and from the way people were jostling one another to get in line to buy a copy, it appeared that the evening was going to be a commercial triumph.

I walked to the end of the line to take my place, but as I queued up, a wave of tiredness washed over me. I had had enough. I looked around to see if I could find Jill, so I could apologize. I spotted her in the corner talking to Barry Levitt. There were reconciliations all around.

As I walked past the bar to get my coat, old Giv Mewhort spotted me. Giv was a professor emeritus of English and as much a fixture of the Faculty Club as the grand piano in the corner. Rumour had it that he raised his morning glass of Gilbey’s when the Faculty Club staff were still laying out the breakfast buffet, but Giv was always a gentleman.

That night, as he came over to help me on with my coat, he was courtly. When I thanked him, he smiled puckishly. “My pleasure,” he said. “In fact the whole evening has been a pleasure.” He glanced towards the table where Tom Kelsoe was signing books. “I haven’t enjoyed a performance this much since I saw the young Marlon Brando play Mark Antony in
Julius Caesar.”
He waved his glass in Tom’s direction. “That boy over there is good.”

It was 9:00 when I pulled into my driveway. The wind had stopped, but it was still raining. It seemed to me I had been cold and wet the whole day. The dogs met me hopefully at the breezeway door.

“Not a chance,” I said. “I promise we’ll go for a walk first thing tomorrow. But right now, the best I can do for you is let you out for a pee.”

When I came into the kitchen, Alex Kequahtooway was sitting at the kitchen table smearing mustard onto a corned beef sandwich. He looked up when he saw me. “I had an hour clear, so I took a chance that you’d be home early. Angus told me to help myself.”

“Good for Angus,” I said. “But I thought we were out of mustard.”

“I carry my own.”

“You’re kidding.”

“That’s right,” he said, “I’m kidding. I thought you looked like you could use a joke.”

“Actually, I think what I could use is you.”

He put down his sandwich, came over, and put his arms around me. His shirt was fresh and his hair was wet.

“You smell like lemons,” I said.

“It’s the shampoo,” he said. “When you spend much time in the room with a body, the smell kind of soaks in. Lemon’s the only thing I know that takes it out.” He smiled. “Would you like me to change the subject?”

“Maybe just switch the focus. How’s the investigation going?”

“Okay. The M.E.’s finished, and the landlady was co-operative. I bet she doesn’t weigh eighty-five pounds, but she’s a tough old bird. Most people would be pretty shaken if they’d walked in on the scene she walked in on, but her big gripe seems to be that Gallagher died in a room she was trying to rent. She’d just finished cleaning.”

“The room was vacant?”

“Apparently. Come on. Let’s sit down, and I’ll tell you about it. Want some milk?”

“I think what I would like is a pot of Earl Grey tea.”

“I’ll put the kettle on,” he said. “Anyway, the room was vacant, and at seven o’clock last night it was as presentable as a dump like that would ever be. Alma Stringer – that’s the landlady – said she hauled the vacuum up herself because she’d shampooed the rug. Of course, with one thing and another, her shampoo job is pretty well shot now.”

“Wasn’t the door locked?”

“The doors on the main floor were. Alma has more locks on those doors than the government has on the Federal Mint, but she’d left the door to the room Reed Gallagher ended up in open; she wanted to give the rug a chance to dry. Anyway, the room’s on the third floor, and there’s a fire escape just a couple of steps down the hall. Alma says if she finds the tenant who left the door to the fire escape open, she’ll kill him with her bare hands, and I believe her.”

The kettle started to sing. I warmed the pot, then measured in the Earl Grey. “None of this makes sense, Alex. Reed Gallagher had money, and I’ll bet he had a wallet full of credit cards. Why would he risk breaking into a rooming house when he could have just gone to a hotel?”

Alex poured the tea. “Zimbardo’s theory is that with this kind of masochistic sex, the danger of the surroundings is part of the kick. You’ll have to admit, Jo, it’s not exactly the type of act you want to pull off at the Holiday Inn. And another thing, we found drugs at the scene. Street drugs. Gallagher might have been down there making a buy and just decided to stay in the neighbourhood.”

“What kind of drugs?”

“Amyl nitrites. The street name is poppers. They dilate the blood vessels. They were originally used to treat angina.”

“But you don’t think Reed was using them for medicinal reasons.”

“Not with the hood and the rest of the paraphernalia. Poppers are also supposed to prolong and intensify orgasm. Splatter figured that’s what Gallagher was doing, but it was a bad choice. Amyl nitrites cause a sharp decrease in blood pressure. The current theory is that Gallagher blacked out, and wasn’t able to extricate himself from his bondage.”

“What an awful way to die.”

“It’s not the best, that’s for sure.” Alex studied the tea in his cup, then he looked up. “Jo, was Reed Gallagher bisexual by any chance?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Because poppers are primarily used by gay men. It’s odd to see a straight guy with them.”

“The whole thing is odd,” I said.

“It is that,” he said. “And I think we’ve both had enough of it. Let’s talk about something more pleasant. How was your evening?”

“Actually, not much better than yours.” I started to tell him about the launch. I skipped the ugly exchange I’d had with Jill, but I did tell him about Tom Kelsoe’s rudeness to Ed Mariani.

When I finished, Alex shook his head in disgust. “Why would a terrific woman like Jill put up with a prick like that?”

“She’s in love,” I said. “Or she thinks she is. But that was a pricky thing to do, wasn’t it? I’m glad to have some objective corroboration. My instincts weren’t very trustworthy tonight.”

“You’ve got great instincts.”

“When it comes to Tom Kelsoe, I’m not exactly impartial. You know, I’m embarrassed even to say this, but at the book launch I realized that, in addition to everything else, I’m jealous of him.”

“Because of all the attention he’s getting?”

“Partly, I guess. When my book came out, my publisher didn’t lay on a launch. I just invited all my friends over for a barbecue and made them buy a copy.”

“I didn’t know you’d written a book.”

“Neither did anybody else. It was a biography of Andy Boychuk. It’s been almost five years since he died, but I still think how different this province, maybe even the country, would have been if he’d lived.”

“Do you really believe one person can make a difference?”

“Sure. Don’t you?”

“I used to. That’s why I joined the force. I was going to show the public that a native cop could be as smart and as reliable as a white cop, and I was going to show the native community that the law was fair and impartial.” He laughed. “In those days, I thought of myself as a force for change.”

“And you don’t think of yourself that way any more?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

I looked at him. Even in the softly diffused light from the telephone table, the acne scars of his adolescence were apparent. The first time we’d made love, he’d recoiled when I touched his face. The more I came to know Alex Kequahtooway, the more I believed the acne scars were just the beginning.

“We’re wasting our hour talking,” I said.

He came and put his arms around me. “So we are,” he said. “So we are.”

Angus’s stage cough was discreet. “Sorry to interrupt, but Leah and I are going to 7-Eleven, and I wanted to make sure Alex was still going to give me a driving lesson tomorrow.”

“I’ll be here at nine a.m.,” Alex said.

“With your Audi,” Angus said.

“With my Audi.”

“Was a driving lesson the price you paid for that corned beef sandwich?” I asked.

“I volunteered.” He looked at his watch. “And I’ve got to get back.”

Angus’s eyes widened. “A break in a case?”

“Paperwork,” Alex said, and he stood and zipped his jacket. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Both of you.”

I walked him to the door. Then the dogs and I headed for bed. I almost made it. I’d already checked on Taylor, brushed my teeth, and discovered that all my nightgowns were in the clean laundry in the basement when Angus yelled that there was a lady at the door who had to see me.

I pulled on my jogging clothes and sweatsocks and padded downstairs. Julie Evanson-Gallagher was standing in the hall. She was wearing the London Fog trenchcoat she’d put on to go down to police headquarters that afternoon, but she’d added gold hoop earrings, a paisley silk scarf, a tan leather bag and matching gloves. She was immaculate, but her careful grooming couldn’t hide the tension in her body or the anguish in her eyes.

I stepped aside. “Won’t you come in, Julie?” I said.

“No,” she said. “I just wanted to give you the keys.” She fumbled with her purse. When the clasp finally opened, she took out a set of keys.

“I’m leaving for the airport to catch a flight to Toronto. I’ll need somebody to look after the house when I’m away. I don’t know who else to ask.”

I took the keys from her. “I’ll be happy to help.”

“I didn’t mean you had to go over there. I thought I could pay one of your children. There’s not much to do – just feed the fish and take in the mail. But someone should clean out the refrigerator. My cleaning lady quit last night.” She shook her head in bewilderment. “Why does everything have to go wrong at once?”

“Julie, this has been a terrible day for you. Why don’t you come in and have a drink, and when you’re ready, I’ll drive you to the airport.”

“I can’t take a chance on missing my plane,” she said. “I don’t want to be here when people find out how he died.”

“Did you tell Alex you’re going? The police should know.”

“They know,” she said dully. Then the implication of what I’d said seemed to dawn on her, and for a flash she was the old Julie. “Surely you’re not suggesting that the police think I was connected with what went on in that room.” Her voice rose dangerously. “How could they? How could anybody believe that, if I had a choice, I’d let the world see my husband like that?”

I touched her arm. “Julie, all I meant was that the police might need your signature for something.”

“They can find me at my sister’s,” she said tightly. “She lives in Port Hope. The police have the address, and I’ve left it by the phone in my kitchen in case you need to get in touch with me. Everything’s taken care of.” Suddenly her composure cracked. “I don’t deserve this,” she said. “I did everything right, and I had such hopes.”

As I watched her cab drive up my road towards the airport, I thought of Julie’s epitaph for her marriage. The words were heartbreaking, but tonight wasn’t the first time I’d heard her use them. Years before, I’d run into Julie outside our neighbourhood high school. It was late June, and she had just learned that her son, Mark, had failed every class in grade ten and the counsellor was recommending a non-academic program for him. She had been devastated. “He’s never going to do anything that matters,” she’d said, miserably. “And I don’t understand. I did everything right, and I had such hopes.” Then, having absolved herself of blame and purged herself of hope, Julie Evanson had closed the door on her only child forever.

CHAPTER

4

When I woke up Saturday morning, the sun was shining, the sky looked freshly washed, the birds were singing, and the phone was ringing. I picked up the receiver, heard Jill Osiowy’s familiar contralto and felt my spirits rise.

It wasn’t unusual for Jill to call on a Saturday morning. She produced Nationtv’s political panel, and I was one of the regulars. The show was telecast live on Saturday nights, and if Jill spotted a provocative item in the morning paper, she’d often call to see how I felt about leading with it. But after my Stepford-wife crack the night before, I was anticipating a chill, and it was a relief to hear her sounding cordial.

“Jo, are you up for a whole change of topic for the call-in segment tonight? It seems there’s been some major-league vandalism at the university.”

“Where at the university?”