The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn (40 page)

As the Faculty Club filled to overflowing, I began to circulate, looking for someone whose age suggested they might have known Reed in the Ryerson days. The group through which I made my way was an oddly festive one. Ed had let it be known that he didn’t want to see anyone wearing a scrap of black at Reed’s last party. The weather had continued mild and sunny, and both women and men had broken out their spring best. The swirl of pastel dresses and light suits made the rooms look like a garden party. When Barry Levitt sat down at the grand piano, and the bass player and the drummer took their places and began to play “Come Rain or Come Shine,” the party took off. People had drinks, filled plates at the buffet, and visited. As the afternoon wore on, I exchanged pleasantries with many very pleasant people, but although a handful of them had known Reed Gallagher when he was at Ryerson, none of them displayed a shock of recognition when I mentioned Annalie Brinkmann’s name.

There were more than a few famous faces in that room. For much of his career, Reed Gallagher had worked in the major media markets of New York and Toronto, and as I wandered, I saw some of our students in earnest conversation with people they could have known only by reputation. Success is a magnet, and our students were drawn to that small band of the elect who by anyone’s criteria had succeeded: Americans who anchored television newsmagazines and supper-hour news; Canadians who wrote regular columns in Canadian newspapers that mattered or books that topped the best-seller list. But as had been the case since I was an undergraduate, the celebrities that no student could resist were the Canadians who had made it big in the U.S.A. When Ed Mariani went to the microphone to announce that the formal part of the afternoon was about to begin, he had to make his way through a group of J-school students jostling one another for
a place in the circle that surrounded Peter Jennings. His manner held the implicit promise that, while the Holy Grail could only be found south of the border, it was waiting for their Canadian hands.

Ed didn’t speak long, perhaps five minutes, but he touched on all the essentials: Reed Gallagher’s integrity as a journalist, his commitment as a teacher, and his steadfastness as a friend. In closing, Ed said that perhaps the most fitting epitaph for Reed Gallagher could be found in H.L. Mencken’s catalogue of the characteristics of the man he most admired: “a serene spirit, a steady freedom from moral indignation, and an all-embracing tolerance.”

I glanced at the table near the windows where the Media class had congregated; from the rapt expressions on their faces, it was apparent that Mencken’s words still had the power to inspire. It was an emotional afternoon for the J-school students. Ed concluded his remarks by inviting people to come up and share their memories. As Reed’s friends and colleagues walked to the microphone, drinks in hand, to speak with tenderness about Reed Gallagher’s passionate curiosity or his decency or his fearlessness, the students were visibly moved. They were young, and they had not had much experience of death; for many of them, the eulogies for a man who had been laughing with them the week before were an awakening to mortality. Linda Van Sickle was fighting tears, and when Val Massey put his arm around her, she buried her head gratefully in his chest. Then Jumbo Hryniuk, who was sitting next to Val, reached over and gently stroked Linda’s hair, and I was struck again by the cohesion that existed among the students in that particular class.

As the afternoon wore on, I found myself tense with the effort to catch Annalie Brinkmann’s characteristic lilt in the voice of one of the eulogists, but I never did, and by the
time Ed Mariani joined me, I’d resigned myself to the prospect that Annalie was a no-show.

When the last speaker left the microphone and the jazz trio struck up “Lady Be Good,” Ed leaned towards me. “Come on,” he said, “there’s someone I want you to meet. My one famous acquaintance. You’ll like him – I promise.” I followed Ed across the room, and he introduced me to a journalist from Washington, D.C., whom I recognized at once as a regular on the “Capitol Gang.” Ed’s friend had some rivetting stories and some even more rivetting gossip, and I was enjoying myself until I noticed that suddenly all the pleasure had vanished from Ed Mariani’s face.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

Ed pointed towards the memorabilia table. “Look over there,” he said.

Tom Kelsoe and Jill Osiowy were standing in front of the display. They had ignored Ed’s edict about wearing black, and they were dressed in outfits that were almost identical: black lace-up boots; tight black pants; black shirts. Standing side by side, so close together that their bodies appeared fused, they seemed more like mythic twins than lovers. As soon as Tom Kelsoe saw me looking, he leaned down and whispered something to Jill. Then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone.

Beside me, Ed Mariani shuddered. “What do you make of that performance?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I’m glad it’s over. I hate seeing Jill like that, and I’m not in the mood for a rerun of Tom as the suffering hero.”

Ed’s expression was bleak. “I’m never in the mood for Tom as anything.” Then he shook himself. “I’d better get over and thank people for coming. Barry used to be a camp counsellor and he says you should always kill an event before it dies on you.”

It didn’t take long for the Faculty Club to clear. The painful ritual of saying goodbye was over, and people were anxious to get back to the concerns of the living. When the last guest had left, the Faculty Club staff began clearing off the buffet table and carrying dishes towards the kitchen, and I went over to the memorabilia table and began to pack up.

As I worked, I remembered the warmth of the eulogies, and the question that had been troubling me since I’d heard about Reed’s death floated to the top of my consciousness: given the fulfilment and the promise of his life, how could Reed Gallagher have had such a death? It was a question for a philosopher, and as I closed the last carton, I knew that it would be a long time before I had an answer. I was just about to tape up the box when I realized that I didn’t remember putting in the photograph of Annalie and Reed. I checked, but the mahogany table was bare. It was obvious I was mistaken, that I’d wrapped the photo and absent-mindedly stuck it in the box with the rest. The prospect of unwrapping everything and checking didn’t thrill me, but the idea of losing the picture appealed to me even less. Reluctantly, I pulled everything out and began to search. The photograph wasn’t there.

I was baffled. There had been signed pictures of celebrities that were rare enough that they might have tempted a light-fingered mourner, but an old newspaper picture of Reed Gallagher and a girl nobody knew hardly qualified as a collectible. The only logical possibility was that someone had picked up the photograph, wandered off, and put it down somewhere else. I went back to the Faculty Club office and asked the manager, Grace Lipinski, to ask the cleaning staff to keep an eye out for the photograph. Then I went back to my repacking.

I’d just about finished when old Giv Mewhort came out of the bar. He was wearing a vintage white suit that would have
been the very thing for one of Gatsby’s parties, and his face was pink with gin and emotion. He picked up one of Reed’s photos and said, “ ‘The noblest Roman of them all’ – too famous doubtless to be cut.” He smiled sardonically. “Although, from what I hear, Reed Gallagher hardly died a stoic’s death. Still, he was the best of a sorry lot and a good man to drink with.” He replaced the photograph carefully in the box. “I shall miss him.”

The carton was unwieldy, and Barry and Ed offered to carry it down to the car for me. When we’d stowed it safely in the trunk, the three of us stood for a moment in the sunshine. I started to tell them about the missing photograph, but they both looked so weary I decided to give them a compliment instead.

“It was a terrific afternoon,” I said. “I know how much work goes into making an event seem that effortless. You both did a great job.”

Ed frowned. “I supposed you noticed that Kellee Savage wasn’t there.”

“I noticed,” I said, “and I’m worried.”

When I parked in front of our house, Angus was shooting hoops, and Leah was trying to teach Taylor how to skip rope. Benny, who, in repose, was beginning to look uncannily like a fox stole, was curled up on the step, watching.

When she saw me, Taylor held out her skipping rope. “Do you want a turn, Jo?”

“At the moment, I’d rather have my toenails ripped out one by one,” I said, “but thanks for asking, and thank you, Leah, for giving T a hand with the womanly arts.” Leah was wearing shorts, and I noticed she had a Haida tattoo of a fish on her calf.

I pointed to it. “Is that new?” I asked.

She smiled. “So new that even my parents haven’t seen it.”

“How do you think they’ll take it?”

Leah grinned. “Oh, they’ll probably want to rip my toenails out one by one, but my dad always says that as long as my grades are good, and my name doesn’t end up on the police blotter, they’ll adjust.”

“Sounds like a wise father,” I said, and I headed for the house. When I got to the porch, Taylor called out, “Don’t forget. I’ve got a birthday party.”

“Since when?” I said.

“Since Samantha gave me the invitation.”

“I didn’t see any invitation.”

“It’s been in my backpack all week.” She squinted as if she was envisioning the missing invitation. “The party’s from four-thirty till eight o’clock.”

I looked at my watch. “Taylor, it’s already twenty to five, you can’t just …” I shrugged. “Never mind. Come on, let’s drive out to Bi-rite. What does Samantha like?”

“Horses.”

“Fine, we’ll get her a flashlight.”

Taylor ran to the porch, scooped up Benny, then came running after me. “Why are we getting her a flashlight?”

“Because they don’t sell horses at Bi-rite. Now come on. Let’s go.”

Benny was not a happy passenger – he yowled all the way to the drugstore – but we did find a flashlight, a card that had a horse on it, and, on the clearance counter, a gift-wrap pack in what appeared to be the Old MacDonald motif. Close enough.

When we got back to the house, Taylor dumped our booty from the drugstore on the kitchen table and began wrapping. I pulled some turkey soup from the freezer, put it on to heat, and started to make dumplings. Within five minutes, Samantha’s present was ready, dinner was under way, and the phone was ringing. It was Alex, and I invited him to join us for dinner. Half an hour later, Taylor was cleaned up and
at the birthday party, and Angus and Alex and I were sitting in candlelight eating soup. Once in a while, I just have all the moves.

As soon as he’d finished his second bowl, Angus jumped up. “I’ve got to go down to the library. Can one of you drive down with me?”

“Take your bike,” I said. “We’d like a chance to talk. Besides, I’m too old to jump up from the dinner table.”

“You’re not old,” he purred.

“Thank you,” I said, “but you’re still taking your bicycle.”

After Angus left, Alex and I carried the candles and our coffee into the living room, and traded our news for the day.

When I told Alex about Reed and Annalie’s picture disappearing, he raised an eyebrow. “You think someone stole it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably not. It’s just that I was already on edge when I discovered the photograph was missing.”

“On edge about what?”

“About all the things that don’t make sense about Reed’s death. Alex, I wish you could have been there this afternoon. That memorial service would have given you a very different perspective on the Reed Gallagher case.”

Alex’s eyes were troubled. “There is no case, Joanne. Not any more. It’s all wrapped up. The death certificate will read ‘accidental death due to cerebral anoxia’ – lack of oxygen to the brain.”

“You sound as if you don’t think that’s what he died of.”

Alex shook his head. “Oh, I know that’s what he died of. Splatter Zimbardo worked this case hard, and he’s as good as they come. The question marks aren’t with the pathology reports; they’re with our part of the investigation. It’s not that we haven’t done our stuff. We have, and the physical evidence is solid: we’ve got the bottle of Dewar’s that Gallagher was
drinking from that night; we’ve got the tumbler he was using; we’ve got the glass ampoules that held the amyl nitrite he inhaled; we’ve got the seduction outfit he was wearing, and the hood he had on and the electric cord that was around his neck. Gallagher’s fingerprints are exactly where they should be on every single item, and there were no signs of a struggle. All the evidence points in one direction.”

“Except you don’t believe the direction it’s pointing in.”

“I believe it. I just don’t understand it.” He leaned forward. “You know, Jo, cops don’t talk much about the role imagination plays in police work, but it’s essential. When an investigation into a sudden death starts moving in the right direction, it’s like watching a movie playing backwards. You can see what happened in those last hours and, crazy as it sounds, you can feel the emotion. We’ve put all the pieces of the puzzle together on this one, but I still can’t see the pictures. And I can’t feel whatever it was that Reed Gallagher was feeling when he tied that cord around his neck.” Alex picked up his coffee, took a sip, and turned to me. “Tell me about the memorial service, Jo.”

As I told Alex about the tributes Reed’s friends and colleagues had paid him, and about the sense of loss that had been in the Faculty Club that afternoon, his dark eyes never left my face. When I finished, he said, “Not a stupid man.”

“No,” I said, surprised. “Not at all.”

“And yet that’s what Zimbardo says Gallagher died of. Stupidity. He says if Gallagher was into that scene, he should have known better than to use liquor with the amyl nitrite. The combination sends blood pressure through the floor. When Gallagher’s blood pressure dropped, he must have blacked out. With the veins in his neck compressed from the cord, and the chemical stew from the poppers and the booze sludging his veins, and the hood, he was just too weak to fight for air. It was like drowning.”