12 Rose Street (13 page)

Zack and I laughed, but Howard was gloomy. “I wish I could read Cassandra’s brain,” he said. “She sounded very certain of her information. Is there any way we can find out who she is?”

“Pray that my synapses connect,” I said. “When Cassandra called in there was something familiar about her voice. I’ve been mulling it over, but I still can’t figure out who she is.”

Milo picked up his phone and tapped away. “I just tweeted asking for help identifying Cassandra,” he said. He glanced at his phone screen. “And here’s a response already. ‘Lois from
The Family Guy.
’ And here’s another one, ‘Don Cherry.’ ” Milo dropped his phone into his pocket. “It’s going to be a long night,” he said. Then he headed for the door, drumming all the way.

We offered Peter, Maisie, and Angus a nightcap, but they’d all had full days, and Howard, looking more invigorated than he had in weeks, left with them.

Zack and I said goodnight to Taylor, then went up to our room. Zack took off his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Wouldn’t take many days like this to make a dozen,” he said. “So how do you feel about our surging vote?”

“Nervous,” I said.

“Because you think the lead might disappear?”

I took off my slacks, hung them in the closet, and tossed my blouse in the laundry hamper. “No,” I said. “Because I think you might suddenly be in a position to win this thing. Slater Doyle told me that Ridgeway’s people would do whatever it took to defeat you. Now Cassandra has said the same thing.”

“And you believe her.”

“I do,” I said. “When I was a little girl I used to listen to a radio show called
Maggie Muggins.
Every episode ended with Maggie saying, ‘I don’t know what will happen tomorrow.’ Maggie was always very excited about the uncertainty, but the idea of not knowing what was ahead terrified me then and it terrifies me now.”

When Graham Meighen called early Friday morning, he went straight to the point. “Joanne, I’m calling about Liz,” he said. “She’s fine – at least physically, but tomorrow is the anniversary of Beverly’s death, and it’s already hitting her hard. All week she’s been locked away in Beverly’s old room, going through family photos and watching home movies. I’m calling to invite you and Zack to join us for dinner Sunday night. It will give Liz something to look forward to – at the very least it will get her out of that room. And I can promise you a memorable meal. I was fishing in the Queen Charlottes this week, and I caught some spectacular coho.”

“Thanks for the invitation,” I said. “I’ll check with Zack and get back to you.”

“With what will no doubt be a very graceful rejection,” Graham said, sounding gently amused. “Joanne, I know there’s enmity between us politically, but I’m asking you to put it aside for an evening. I’m at a loss about how to help Liz. She shuns me, and she doesn’t want to see anybody else. Her behaviour is erratic. She’s lost in her own world. To be frank, when I look at her, I can barely recognize the woman I married.
But the other day at the scholarship luncheon, when she called me a bullshitter for suggesting the four of us get together, I saw a spark of the Liz I knew. I’m hoping that if I call her bluff about the barbecue, she’ll find that spark again.”

I remembered the longing in Liz’s voice when she told me how she had hoped that the last face she saw before she died would be Beverly’s. “Our calendar’s clear for Sunday night,” I said. “What time would you like us?”

“Seven,” Graham said. “And to put your mind at ease – the house is fully accessible. We had it retrofitted in the year before Beverly died.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” I said. “See you at seven on Sunday.”

Predictably, Zack uttered a daisy chain of his favourite expletives when I told him about accepting the invitation. Equally predictably, he cooled off after I explained that I’d agreed to have dinner with the Meighens because Liz needed help and I didn’t know what else to do.

Zack and I weren’t the only members of our family who weren’t looking forward to Sunday. Classes at the University of Toronto were starting on September 8 and Declan was taking the early flight to Toronto. He and Taylor had spent all of Saturday night bundled up on the roof garden talking.

Declan had promised to say goodbye before he left, and Zack had just poured our morning coffee when the kids, pale with fatigue but quietly happy, came through the door. They were hand in hand and when they joined us at the kitchen table, I saw that they were both wearing silver Celtic knot rings on their left forefingers. I took Taylor’s hand in mine so I could look more closely at the ring. “That’s lovely,” I said.

“Declan bought the rings online,” she said. “They’re a way to keep close while we’re apart.”

Declan had loved Taylor for over two years, but until the past summer Taylor had kept their relationship fond but platonic. Now there was a romance, and there were rings – another milestone.

Taylor was dreamy during church, but she often was. Once, when I’d drawn her attention to the line “Lord keep our thoughts from wandering” from the Young People’s Service in the old prayer book, Taylor had just smiled and returned to her musings.

Declan texted when he landed at Pearson, and when we were having lunch, he called to say he was in his dorm and all was well. Taylor passed along the news, put the lunch dishes in the dishwasher, and said she was going to her studio. When she was at the door, she turned and came back to Zack and me. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Declan and I know who we are, where we are, and where we’re going.”

“That’s impressive,” Zack said.

Taylor smiled her new secret smile. “Not really,” she said. “When you know you’ve found the right person, everything else just seems to fall into place.”

And with that, our not-quite sixteen-year-old daughter headed for her studio.

When I’d met Zack, he drove a white Jaguar with a vanity licence plate that said
Amicus
– friend. These days most of our travel involved kids and dogs, so like me, Zack had a station wagon, but we’d kept the Jag insured. On pretty nights, it was fun to put down the top and feel the rush of driving a slick car through the city.

Neither of us was looking forward to an evening with Graham Meighen, so Zack suggested we take the Jag so we could at least enjoy the trip. As we drove to the Meighens, Zack and I were quiet, absorbed in our own thoughts. We were both wary of Graham, but we were also aware of what
the evening could mean to Liz and we were anxious not to make a misstep.

The Meighens lived in Whitmore Park, a pleasant neighbourhood of large lots and well-kept, nicely landscaped homes developed in the 1960s. Osler Place was its crown jewel. The homes there were the same vintage as their more modest neighbours, but the six houses on Osler Place were built on double lots and all were large. On our drive through the neighbourhood, I’d noticed that the number of lawn signs for Zack and for Scott Ridgeway was pretty well even. All six houses on the Meighens’ street had large signs supporting the incumbent mayor. But the Meighens’ lawn also sported a modest SHREVE sign.

Zack pointed it out to me. “Do you think our hosts will pull that out of the lawn as soon as we leave?”

“No. I think it’ll stay put. My guess is that Liz called our headquarters and asked for the sign – part of the erratic behaviour Graham alluded to.”

Zack reached into the back seat, took out the pieces of his chair, and began to assemble it. After he’d transferred his body from the car to his chair, he shrugged. “Well, let’s get it over with.”

Liz answered the door. She was wearing a simple red turtleneck and an ankle-length black skirt scattered with embroidered poppies. She greeted us both warmly and took our coats. For a moment she seemed unsure about what to do with them. Then she smiled and said, “The hall closet, right?” and we all laughed.

“Graham’s outside fooling with the barbecue,” she said. “Zack, would you mind letting him know you’re here so we can have drinks. Just go through the kitchen.”

“My pleasure,” Zack said, and he wheeled down the hall.

Liz gestured towards the living room. “Come in here with me,” she said. “We have a fire going, so it’s cozy.”

The walls of the room into which Liz led me were eggshell; the floor was red oak and the couches and the four easy chairs drawn around the oval coffee table in front of the fireplace were upholstered in muted lemon and bittersweet patterns. Liz and I settled into chairs that faced each other. “I’m so glad you came,” she said. “There’s something I want to give you.” She glanced towards the arch that separated the living room from the hall to make sure we were alone, then reached under the seat of her chair and pulled out an envelope. “This is a donation to Zack’s campaign,” she said. “I’d hoped to be able to help with the actual work, but I’m just not up to it.”

“What’s the matter, Liz?”

She put her hand to her chest. “I’m losing ground,” she said and her voice wavered.

We could hear Zack and Graham coming towards the living room on a wave of bonhomie. Instinctively, I slid the cheque Liz had given me under the seat of my chair. Fortunately, Graham was wholly absorbed in his role as host. “I have promised Zack the best martini he’ll ever have,” he said.

“I imagine he bridled at that,” I said. “Zack’s very proud of his martinis.”

“Perhaps some day I’ll have a chance to try one,” Graham said. “Until then, Joanne, would you like a martini?”

“Thanks, but I’ll have to pass,” I said. “I’m the driver tonight.”

“A glass of wine?” Graham said.

“I’ll have wine with dinner,” I said. “Some club soda would be great.”

Graham turned to his wife. “Liz?”

“I’m not supposed to have alcohol with the new medication, am I?”

“It’s fine in moderation,” Graham said.

Concern pinched Liz’s face. “Are you sure?”

Graham rested his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “I read the instructions the pharmacist gave us twice. I’ll get you a glass of Merlot.”

Dinner began smoothly. The coho was indeed superb and Zack’s appetite for Graham’s stories about fishing in the Queen Charlottes seemed insatiable. As Zack tapped information about lodges and guides into his phone, I saw a fishing trip in my future.

There were a few awkward moments. When Graham asked Zack how he was enjoying politics, Zack was frank. “Until Labour Day I was having a lot of fun,” he said. “I believe in what we’re doing. I like being around people and Joanne will tell you I’m happiest when I’m at the centre of things. But Cronus’s death has shaken us both.”

If Graham had anything but passing knowledge of Cronus’s death, he certainly didn’t flinch. “Cronus was the man who was murdered,” Graham said to his wife. He turned his eyes to me and they stayed there. “I didn’t realize he was a friend of yours,” he said.

“He wasn’t,” I said. “But he supported Zack’s campaign and not long before he died, he did us a favour.”

Graham’s eyes hardened. “What kind of favour?”

“Just something political,” I said.

“And he wanted nothing in return?” Graham said.

“He wanted a picture of himself with Zack and Brock Poitras, so I took one.” I watched Graham’s face carefully. It revealed nothing, so I pressed on. “I used Cronus’s phone to take the photo and as soon as he saw it, Cronus sent it off with a message.”

“Probably wanted to prove to somebody that he was playing with the big boys,” Graham said mildly. “What was the message?”

“Just some random numbers,” I said. “The inspector in charge of the case thinks the picture could be evidence.”

Liz had been picking at her food, now she put down her knife and fork in the parallel position that indicated she had finished eating. “I really would rather not talk about death tonight,” she said. “Let’s change the subject.”

And we did. We talked of the usual things people discuss at dinner parties: movies, books, other people. Liz and Graham seemed easy with each other and he was attentive to her without hovering.

Liz was not a cook. Graham had barbecued the salmon and their housekeeper had prepared everything else, but Liz had a dessert specialty: lemon pots de crème. After we’d cleared away the dishes from the main course, Liz brought the tray with the ramekins to the table. The pots de crème were warm and they smelled heavenly. We all murmured appreciation and dug in. The dessert was mouth-puckeringly sour. Liz’s hand flew to her forehead. “I left out the white chocolate,” she said. “I’ve made this recipe a thousand times. How could I forget the chocolate?”

“Your mind was elsewhere,” I said. “It happens to me too,” I said. “I usually just throw in what I forgot.”

“Could we do that?” Liz’s voice was small and hopeful.

“Let’s give it a try,” I said. The chocolate was on the counter in a measuring cup. We microwaved it and stirred some into each of the ramekins. I tasted mine. “The dessert’s wonderful, Liz. Let’s take it in to the men.”

“Give me a minute,” Liz said. She was close to tears. “Joanne, this is not an isolated incident. I’ve heard that extreme grief can cause dementia. I’m wondering if that’s what happening to me.”

“Are you seeing a doctor?”

“A psychiatrist. He keeps telling me I’m improving, but I’m not.”

“Graham seems attentive. What does he think?”

“He says that if I just take my meds and keep seeing the psychiatrist, I’ll be fine.” The penny dropped. Liz’s voice, husky with emotion and precise in its enunciation, was the voice of the woman who had called
Quinlan Live
urging Zack to withdraw from the race.

I stepped close to her and lowered my voice. “You’re Cassandra, aren’t you?”

Liz’s eyes widened. “Leave it alone, Joanne. Please. For all our sakes, just leave it alone.” And with that, she picked up the tray we had set the desserts on and hurried out of the room.

To all appearances, the evening ended smoothly. Graham said the pot de crème was even better with the melted chocolate added at the last moment, and Zack said he’d never had pots de crème but Liz’s dessert was fabulous. When Zack was chatting with the Meighens in the hall, I slipped into the living room. I’d left my purse there, so I’d have a chance to retrieve the envelope Liz had given me. I found the envelope, tucked it in my bag, and was back in the hall within seconds.