The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn (59 page)

Detective Robert Hallam snapped his notepad shut and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Thank you for your time, Miss McCourt. You’ve been very helpful.” He bobbed his head in my direction and headed for the door.

After he left, I turned to Hilda. “You
were
helpful,” I said. “Surprisingly so, after you two got off to such a rocky start.”

Hilda shuddered. “The man’s an egotist,” she said. “But I couldn’t let my distaste for him stand in the way of the investigation of Justine’s murder. This news is so cruel. It’s barbarous that Justine should die not knowing …” She fell silent.

I reached over and touched her hand. “What didn’t Justine know?”

A wave of pain crossed Hilda’s face. “Whether she was in the process of losing her mind or of finding a truth that would make sense of her life,” she said.

“That book on geriatric psychiatry you were reading tonight was Justine’s, wasn’t it?”

Hilda nodded. “She gave it to me last night. Joanne, the information I gave Detective Hallam was accurate but not complete. Out of deference to Justine’s reputation, I didn’t divulge the nature of our final conversation. It was a deeply distressing one. Justine said she didn’t know who to trust any more. Certain people, whom she did not name, were concerned about her mental competence. She wanted me to read through the diagnostic criteria for a number of conditions and, in light of what I’d learned, tell her if I believed she was in need of psychiatric help.”

“She wanted you to reach a verdict about her sanity?” I asked.

“That’s exactly what she wanted. And she wanted to make certain I had the evidence I needed to reach a just verdict.” Hilda slipped a hand into her pocket and withdrew a cream-coloured envelope. She took out a single piece of paper and handed it to me. The letter was dated the preceding day, handwritten in the same bold, erratic hand I’d seen in the margins of the book on geriatric psychiatry.

Dear Hilda McCourt:

As you know, I have become increasingly concerned about my mental state. I require your assistance to determine whether I am still mentally competent. Therefore, I am concurrently executing a Power of Attorney appointing you as my attorney with all necessary powers to investigate and examine my past and current affairs, including the right to access and review all financial records, personal papers, and any and all other documents that you deem relevant in order to determine my mental competency. Further, should you determine that I am not mentally competent, then
I authorize you to apply to the court pursuant to the Dependant Adults Act to have me declared incapable of managing my personal affairs, and furthermore, to have you appointed as both my personal and property guardian. Incidentally, my trusted friend, I want to inform you that I have previously executed my will, appointing you as my Executrix.

The signature was Justine Blackwell’s.

I felt a coldness in the pit of my stomach. “I can’t think of many things more frightening than not knowing if I was losing touch with reality.”

Hilda’s voice was bleak. “In all the years I knew her, I never saw Justine unsure of herself until last night. When she handed me this letter, there was something in her eyes I can’t describe – a kind of existential fear. From the moment I heard about her death, I haven’t been able to get that image out of my mind. There’s a story about Martin Heidegger.”

“The philosopher,” I said.

Hilda’s nod was barely perceptible. “A policeman spotted him sitting alone on a park bench. He appeared so desperate that the officer went over to him and asked him who he was. Heidegger looked up at the man and said, ‘I wish to God I knew.’ ” Hilda’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Joanne, can you conceive of a fate crueller than dying without knowing who you are?”

I thought of Eli Kequahtooway, the child of glass. “Only one,” I said. “Living without knowing who you are.”

CHAPTER

2

When I awoke the next morning the sun was streaming through the window, and our golden retriever, Rose, was sitting beside the bed, looking at me accusingly. It was 7:00 a.m. Our collie, Sadie, had died in June, and Rose, in her grief and confusion at losing her lifelong companion, had become a stickler about adhering to the old routines. By this time, she and I were usually halfway round the lake. I rubbed her head. “Cut me a little slack, Rose,” I said. “It was a long night, and I don’t bounce back the way I used to.”

Fifteen minutes later, we were on our familiar route. For the first time in weeks, Wascana Park wasn’t throbbing with the drums and shouts of a team getting ready for the Dragon Boat Festival. The exuberant event had become a highlight of our city’s celebration of the last weekend of summer, but now the paddlers had gone home, and the only sounds on the lake were the squawks of the geese and the shouts of the men loading the last of the big boats onto trailers.

The races had been held all day Saturday. A crew from “Canada Tonight,” the
TV
show on which I appeared every
weekend as a political panellist, had drawn a position in one of the first heats, and Alex and Eli and my kids and I had gone down to the lake to offer moral support. We found a clearing on the shore where we could see the finish line, and after the “Canada Tonight” team came in dead last, we cheered for whoever struck our fancy until we got hungry and decided to cruise the concession stands. After we’d sampled everything worth sampling, we came back to my house, dug out the old croquet set, and played until it was time to eat again, and Alex had barbecued burgers while I served up potato salad and slaw. When the sun started to fall in the sky, the five of us walked back to the lake and watched the final heats of the race.

The evening had been flawless. As the sun set, the lake glittered gold, transforming the dragon boats into sampans, those magical vessels that sailed through the China of fairy tales, a land of sandalwood, silk, and nightingales whose silence could break the heart of an emperor.

For the first time I could remember, the five of us seemed to be in a state of perfect harmony. On the way home, the boys talked about getting a team together to enter the race next year. My daughter, Taylor, who was two months shy of her seventh birthday, was adamant about being included.

Her brother winced, but Eli was gentle. “Sure we’ll need you, Taylor. Somebody has to sit at the front of the boat and beat the drum. You’ll have the whole winter to practise.” When Taylor crowed, Eli looked at me anxiously. “That’ll be okay, won’t it?”

“Absolutely,” I said. Then, tentatively, I’d let my hand rest on his shoulder. In all the time I’d known him, Eli had never permitted physical intimacy. When he smiled at me, I thought that, at long last, we might be home-free. Yet not even a day later, he’d run away again. It didn’t make sense.

A cluster of dog-walkers had gathered along the shore. They were looking out at the lake. I joined them. A few metres out, police frogmen were diving.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

A man with a black standard poodle half-turned towards me. “You heard about that murder last night?”

“Yes,” I said. “I heard.”

“Apparently, they’re looking for the weapon.”

I gazed out at the lake. It shimmered sun-dappled and inscrutable: a place for secrets.

“The woman was killed up there at the Boy Scout memorial,” the man with the poodle continued, pointing towards the path that ran from the clearing where we were standing up towards the road. Between us and the road was the Boy Scout memorial. A handful of curious joggers were checking out the yellow crime-scene tape which roped off the area.

“You can take a look if you like,” the man with the poodle said. “But there’s not much to see.”

“I think I’ll give it a pass,” I said. At the best of times, the monument gave me the creeps, and this was not the best of times. Both my sons had been Boy Scouts, so I knew that the memorial, a central stone circled by nine smaller stones, was a representation of the sign Scouts leave at a campsite to indicate to others that they’ve gone home. But these stones were as large as tombstones, and they were engraved. The chunk of marble in the middle was inscribed with the Boy Scout emblem and motto; each of the more modest stones encircling it was etched with one key word from the laws that stated what a Boy Scout should be: Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Clean, Trustworthy, Helpful, Brotherly, Courteous, and Kind.

Tired of waiting, or perhaps responding to some atavistic urge the presence of death stirred in her, Rose began to whine.

I tightened the leash around my hand. “I’m way ahead of you, Rose,” I said, and we headed for home.

When I came in, Alex and Taylor were sitting at the kitchen table reading the comics in the newspaper. It was a homey scene, but Alex’s shoulders were slumped and his exhaustion was apparent. I said hello, and he looked up at me through eyes so deeply shadowed that I went over and put my arms around him.

Taylor looked at us happily. “This is nice,” she said.

“I agree,” I said. And for a while it was nice. We had breakfast, then Taylor took Alex and me out to the sunroom to look at the painting she was working on. She had started using oils that summer, and her talent, a gift from her birth mother, the artist Sally Love, was declaring itself with a sureness that filled me with awe. The picture on her easel was of Angus, Eli, and Taylor herself watching the dragon-boat races, and it throbbed with the energy of the contest. Spikes of light radiated from the sun, and as the dragon boats slashed through the water, they sent up a spray as effervescent as joy.

Alex gazed at the painting thoughtfully, then he took Taylor’s hand in his. “Nice work,” he said.

She scrutinized his face carefully. “You
really
think it’s okay?”

“Yeah,” Alex said, “I
really
think it’s okay.”

Content, my daughter picked up her brush and began shading the underside of a cloud.

I looked at Alex. “I don’t think we’re needed here,” I said.

He grinned. “I think you’re right.”

I made us a pitcher of iced tea. We took it out to the deck and sat on the steps.

Alex closed his eyes and touched his cold glass against his forehead.

“Headache?” I asked.

“It’s manageable,” he said.

I turned to him. “Ready to talk about Eli?”

Alex shook his head. “There’s not much to say. It’s as if he’s decided to shut down. He doesn’t talk. His face is a mask. Even the way he moves is different – as if suddenly his body doesn’t belong to him. The psychiatrist who’s taking Dr. Rayner’s emergencies is going to see him this morning. The new guy’s name is Dan Kasperski, and he specializes in adolescents. I like his approach. When I started to tell him Eli’s history, he asked me to wait and tell him later. Kasperski says it’s best to start with a clean slate, no preconceptions; that way he can put himself into the patient’s situation and pick up on what Eli thinks is important.”

“It sounds as if Eli’s in good hands,” I said.

Alex sipped his tea. “Let’s hope.”

“I haven’t thanked you for stepping in last night,” l said. “Going downtown to identify her friend would have been very painful for Hilda.”

“And unnecessary,” Alex said. “Justine Blackwell had three daughters. They did their duty. Apparently it was quite a scene.”

“The daughters made a scene?”

“No. From what I hear, they were quite businesslike. The problem was with the pathology staff. They were tripping all over one another to gawk at Lucy Blackwell.”

“It’s not every day you get a chance to gawk at a legend,” I said. “When I was in my twenties, I was so proud that a Canadian girl was hanging out with Dylan and Joan Baez. I think I’ve got all of Lucy Blackwell’s old albums. It’s funny, I hadn’t thought about her for ages, then I heard her interviewed on the radio this summer. She’s just come out with a
CD
boxed set. It’s called
The Sorcerer’s Smile
. I’ve asked Angus to get the word out that’s what I want for my birthday.”

Alex laughed softly. “Angus has already got the word out. I might even be able to get you an autograph. Sherm Zimbardo is the M.E. on this one, and he said that Lucy Blackwell was very co-operative.”

I shuddered. “Poor woman, having to go down to the morgue and see her mother like that.”

“At least she was spared the crime scene.” Alex’s face was sombre. “Justine Blackwell did not die easily. She was bludgeoned to death. We haven’t recovered the weapon yet, but Sherm thinks she was probably killed on that big flat stone at the centre of the monument.” He looked at me questioningly. “Do you know the one I mean? It’s got the Boy Scout motto on it.”

“I know the one,” I said.

“Sherm thinks that after the first couple of blows, Justine Blackwell fell back against the centre stone. The killer finished her off there, then dragged her over and propped her up where we found her.”

“You mean the killer deliberately moved her to one of those stones with the Boy Scout virtues on them?” I said.

“Is that what they are?” he asked. “We didn’t have a Boy Scout troop out at Standing Buffalo.”

“Too bad,” I said. “You would have looked mighty fetching in those short pants.”

Alex’s face was pensive. “I wonder what we’re supposed to make of the stone Justine Blackwell was propped up against?”

“Which one was it?” I asked.

“ ‘Trustworthy,’ ” Alex said drily.

It was almost 9:30 when Alex left. I walked him to the car and watched as his silver Audi disappeared down the street. Angus was waiting for me in the front hall when I went inside.

“Has anybody heard from Eli?” he asked.

“He’s back,” I said. “Too bad you didn’t get up earlier. Alex was here. He could have filled you in.”

Angus looked away. “I was waiting till he left.”

“Waiting till Alex left? Why would you do that?”

“Because I need to talk to you alone.”

“Okay.” I put my arm around his waist. My son had shot up over the summer. He was close to six feet now, but he was still my baby. “Let’s sit down in the kitchen so we can look each other in the eye.”