The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn (66 page)

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down opposite her. “What was Justine like when you knew her first, Hilda?”

“Bright, independent, ambitious.” Hilda smiled. “I don’t mind admitting that I saw a great deal of myself in her. She was, as my beloved L.M. Montgomery’s Anne would have said, ‘a kindred spirit.’ ”

“Then I would have liked her,” I said.

Hilda took the compliment coolly. “Yes, you would have liked her. There was no reason not to. We met in 1946. I’d just bought my house on Temperance Street. It was a chaotic time, Joanne; the universities were jam-packed with returned soldiers. It was wonderful, but it was madness: students sitting atop radiators, on window-ledges, in the aisles, and still spilling out into the halls. Of course, housing was at a premium. That September, I decided that by offering room and board to a woman student, I could do a good deed
and
expedite the process of paying off my mortgage. I put a notice on the bulletin board in the administration building at the university. Within an hour, Justine, or Maisie, as she was known then, was standing on my doorstep.”

“Justine changed her name?” I asked.

“Justine changed
both
her names,” Hilda said. “She was born Maisie Wilson. Blackwell is her married name; Justine was her
nom de guerre
. The choice was a wise one. By the time I met her, it was plain that she saw her destiny as going far beyond that of a Saskatchewan farmgirl. For the future she had in mind, Justine was a much more suitable name than Maisie.

“I expect you can tell from the photographs in the paper that Justine was attractive, but in 1946 she was ravishing, no other word for it. Her hair was white blonde, and she wore it in a pageboy, as young women did in those days; it was immensely flattering. Her skin was flawless, and her eyes were the same colour as Lucy’s. Since the advent of
contact lenses, I’ve seen a number of young women with those aquamarine eyes, but the shade of Justine’s was God-given. She had the same generous mouth Lucy has, and the same dazzling smile. When she asked me about the room, my first thought was that my house would be overrun with eager young men, so I asked her straight out how serious she was about her studies. She assured me there would be no late-night visitors, because her only goal in life was to graduate at the top of her class in law school.”

“I take it she realized her goal.”

“She did indeed. Top of her class. But she worked hard for it: left the house at seven sharp every morning; took one hour off for supper at five; then back to the library till it closed. It was a monastic life for such a handsome young woman.”

Hilda seemed about to let the subject drop, but I wanted to hear more. “You
did
like her, though,” I said.

Hilda seemed perplexed. “I’m not sure ‘like’ is the word I would use. I respected her. Justine knew what she wanted, and she went after it.”

“Dedicated and persistent,” I said. “She does sound like you.”

Hilda laughed. “Justine made me look lackadaisical. There was an incident the first year she lived in my house on Temperance Street that revealed her measure. I owned a gramophone and an extensive library of recordings, and when Justine moved in I invited her to make use of them. She never did. Then one day, I came home and found her listening to
Manon Lescaut
. She was reading the libretto, taking notes. She didn’t appear to be enjoying the music much, so I asked her if she liked Puccini. Justine said she didn’t have an opinion one way or the other, but one of the men in her class told her that the senior partner in Blackwell, Dishaw and Boyle, the law firm with which she planned to article, was an opera lover, and she wanted to be prepared. Three years later,
when she walked into Richard Blackwell’s office, Justine Wilson could have won the Metropolitan Opera’s Saturday-afternoon quiz.”

“And she married the senior partner?”

“She did indeed – a month to the day after their first meeting. Richard Blackwell was twenty-five years older than Justine. He’d never married, and he was eager for a family. Justine complied. Signe was born in 1950, and the others followed. Justine never seemed very interested in motherhood. She was combative by nature, and she loved the rough and tumble of the courtroom. Richard retired to raise those children. He and his little girls became quite a well-known sight in Saskatoon.”

“A wife with a high-powered career and a husband who stays home with the kids – the Blackwells were about forty years ahead of their time,” I said.

Hilda’s face grew sad. “From what I saw, Richard Blackwell relished every moment he spent with his daughters. It’s too bad he didn’t have longer with them.”

“When did he die?”

“In 1967. I remember because he died at one of the banquets we had in Saskatoon that year for Canada’s Centennial. The Blackwells had moved to Regina by then. Justine had already made a name for herself as a criminal lawyer, but she was ready for the next stage. She wanted to be noticed by those who influenced judicial appointments. Richard had come back to Saskatoon for the dinner. I was there. It was terrible. There were hundreds of people in the room. Everyone was rushing about, trying to summon help. But nothing could be done. It was a heart attack. Massive. The worst thing was that Lucy was with him. Richard had brought her over for a chat when they came in. She would have been about fifteen, I guess, and she was so proud of being at a grown-up event with her father. Then, in an instant, he was
gone. I’ve often wondered if that trauma spawned the need to be surrounded by men which seems to have been so much a part of her life.”

A line from one of Lucy’s songs came back to me.
He painted a rainbow and took me along, then lightning split us, shattered my song
. I turned to Hilda. “I think that’s probably a pretty solid observation.”

Hilda’s voice was thoughtful. “Justine didn’t appear to suffer any permanent ill effects from her husband’s death. Not long after Richard died, she was appointed to the bench. As I told that odious Detective Hallam, Justine and I lost touch except for the occasional lunch and holiday letters. Of course, Saskatchewan is a small province, so it was impossible not to hear news of her.”

“From farmgirl to Justice on the Court of Queen’s Bench,” I said. “Justine put together quite a life for herself.”

Hilda looked at me approvingly. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s amazing how often simply talking a problem through can help one solve it.” She picked up the book of Montaigne essays and read aloud. “ ‘What? Have you not lived? That is not only the fundamental but the most illustrious of your occupations.… To compose our character is our duty.… Our great and glorious masterpiece is to live appropriately.’ ” She cocked an eyebrow. “Well, is that quotation equivocal enough?”

I smiled at her. “As equivocations go, I’d say it’s almost perfect.” I touched her hand. “Hilda, let this be the end of it. You’ve already done more than Justine would ever have asked of you.”

Hilda shrugged. “Perhaps I have, but it’s still not enough. Joanne, you know as well as I do that fine words butter no parsnips. Montaigne’s
Essays
may get us through the funeral, but unless I discover the truth about Justine’s state of mind in
the last year, her enduring epitaph will be written in tabloid headlines. She deserves better.”

“So do you,” I said, and I was surprised at the emotion in my voice. “Hilda, don’t let them draw you into this. Murder spawns a kind of ugliness that most people can’t even imagine. It’s like a terrible toxic spill. Once it splashes over you, you’re changed forever. Believe me, I know. Don’t let it touch you.”

Hilda’s expression was troubled. “It already has, my dear. Maybe that’s why I can’t just walk away. What kind of woman would I be if I just turned my back and let the darkness triumph?”

“There’s nothing I can say that will dissuade you?”

“Nothing.”

“Then at least promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid,” she said curtly. “I’ve been given a long and healthy life, Joanne. I’m not about to jeopardize what any sensible person would realize is a great blessing.”

When Jill Osiowy, the producer of “Canada Tonight” and my friend, called my office later that afternoon, I was deep in weekend plans. Except for the usual round of Saturday chores, the next couple of days were clear, and I aimed to keep them that way. Our summer at the lake had been straight out of the fifties: canoeing, canasta, croquet, and a calm broken only by the chirping of crickets and the reedy voices of little kids calling on Taylor. I had come back from the lake with a tan and an overwhelming sense of peace. The tan was fading, and the events since Labour Day had made some major inroads on my tranquility, but in my estimation two days by the pool would go a long way to restoring both. If I was lucky, I’d be able to convince Hilda to join me.

“I hope you’ve got nothing more on your mind than chilled wine and serious gossip,” I said.

Jill laughed. “We have a little task first. How would you like to look at some videos of men doing interesting things?”

“It depends on the men,” I said. “And on the interesting things.”

“These men are auditioning for the chance to replace Sam Spiegel on our political panel,” she said. “I’ve tried to talk him into staying, but Sam says retirement means retirement from everything.”

“I’m going to miss him,” I said.

“Me too,” Jill said, “but, ready or not, life goes on, and some of these new guys might work out. The network’s narrowed it down, but I’d appreciate your input. Glayne’s still in Wales but she says she trusts your judgement.” Jill’s voice rose to the wheedling singsong of the schoolyard. “I’ll buy you a drink afterwards.”

“Okay,” I said. “And I’ll take you up on that drink. You and I haven’t had a chance to really talk all summer.”

“Good. I’ll meet you at the front door of Nationtv at two o’clock.”

I’d barely hung up the phone when it rang again. It was Alex, and he sounded keyed up.

“Jo, I have another favour to ask. I just got back to the office and there was a message here from Dan Kasperski. He thinks Eli’s ready to come home.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it?”

“It is, except I have to go to Saskatoon. The cops there have a suspect they think I can help them nail. If I catch the seven-ten plane tonight, I can check out this creep and be back tomorrow afternoon. I hate to ask, but could Eli stay with you tonight?”

“Of course, as long as it’s okay with Eli.”

“It will be. Eli tells me he got pretty tight with you guys this week.”

“We enjoyed being with him, too. Look, why don’t you two come for an early supper? I could barbecue some of that pickerel we caught at the lake. A last taste of summer.”

“Can we bring anything?”

“Just yourselves. And Alex, tell Eli I’m really looking forward to seeing him.”

I hung up. I thought about my tan and my peace of mind. Both would have to wait. As Jill had said, ready or not, life goes on.

When Alex and Eli arrived, Eli was carrying his gymbag and a box of Dilly Bars from the Dairy Queen. He handed them to me. “Uncle Alex wanted to get an ice cream cake, but I thought these would be less trouble for you.” He grinned shyly. “You know – no dishes?”

“Good move,” I said. “And I love Dilly Bars.”

Dinner was low-key and fun. Taylor’s friend Jess joined us. He and Taylor were doing a school project on wildlife of the prairie, and in a burst of untypical enthusiasm, they’d decided to get started immediately. Hilda, who believed in rewarding zeal, however unlikely the source, had promised to take them to the Museum of Natural History after supper. It was a co-operative meal: I made cornbread; Taylor and Jess sliced up tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden; Hilda made potato salad; Alex barbecued the pickerel; Angus and Eli cleaned up. Afterwards, we ate Dilly Bars on the deck. Life as it is lived in
TV
commercials.

As soon as we’d finished dessert, Hilda took the little kids to the museum, and the big boys got out the croquet set and had a game with rules so bizarre even they couldn’t follow them. Halfway through the game, Eli came running
towards us, whirling his croquet mallet above his head. “You can play if you want to, Mrs. Kilbourn, but this is a take-no-prisoners game. Play at your own risk.” Then he laughed the way a teenaged boy is supposed to laugh – wildly and uninhibitedly – and ran back to the game. I thought I had never seen him so happy.

Alex waited until the last minute to leave for the airport, and he looked at the yard regretfully before he went into the house. I slid my arm through his. I knew how he felt. After a troubling week, it seemed a shame to put a rent in the seamless perfection of the evening.

Before he picked up his overnight bag in the front hall, Alex pulled a notebook and pen out of his pocket and began to write. “Here’s the number of headquarters in Saskatoon, and here’s Dan Kasperski’s number in case anything comes up.”

“Nothing’s going to come up,” I said.

“Let’s hope,” Alex said. “Dan Kasperski says he can’t figure this one out. Eli’s doing a lot better, but he still has no memory of what he did in the time between the football game and his appointment with Kasperski.”

“Does Dr. Kasperski think that overhearing what those drunks said caused all of these problems for Eli?”

Alex’s jaw tightened. “He doesn’t know. His theory is that Eli had been carrying around a lot of unresolved emotions and that asshole’s remark just tipped the balance.”

“The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back,” I said.

“Something like that. Kasperski says it doesn’t add up as far as he’s concerned, but he’s been a shrink long enough to know that there are a lot of times when things don’t add up.”

Alex held me a long time before he opened the door. “I’m glad Eli’s going to be with you tonight.”

“It’s where he should be,” I said.

I watched until Alex’s Audi disappeared from my view. As I turned to go into the house, Sylvie O’Keefe drove up. She and I weren’t close, but I liked and respected her. She was a photographer whose work had brought her a measure of fame and more than a measure of controversy. Surprisingly, for an artist so provocative, she was a very traditional parent, who was raising her only child with a mix of love, discipline, and routine that appeared to be just the ticket. Jess was a thoroughly pleasant and happy little boy.