A Killing Spring (12 page)

“Of course,” I said. “And thanks for bringing it in. It’ll give me an excuse to call her. I know Kellee’s behaviour was pretty rotten, but it’s so close to the end of term. I’d hate to see her lose her year.”

“So would I,” Linda said. “But, Professor Kilbourn, when
you talk to Kellee, make sure she understands that she has to stop hounding Val. You saw what he was like in class today. That was Kellee’s doing. I’m sorry that she’s disturbed, but that doesn’t give her licence to ruin Val Massey’s life.”

I thought of Val’s face, pale and expressionless, and the words seemed to form themselves. “You’re right,” I said. “She has to be stopped.”

On my way back to the department, I made a quick trip to Physical Plant and picked up the extra key I needed for Ed Mariani. The woman who handed it to me was friendly and obliging, and I wondered, not for the first time, whether Rosalie Norman would take it amiss if I suggested her life would be smoother if she weren’t so prickly.

When I got back to my office, Val Massey was waiting outside. I was relieved to see him there. I unlocked my door and Val followed me inside. I was grateful that he was giving me a chance to confront the Kellee Savage quandary head on.

“I was just about to make coffee,” I said. “Would you like some?”

“No, thanks,” he murmured.

“Well, at least sit down,” I said, gesturing to the chair across from mine.

He didn’t seem to hear me. He walked over to the window and stood there, wordless and remote, until the silence between us grew awkward.

“You have to be department head before they give you a view of anything other than the parking lot,” I said.

Val turned and looked at me uncomprehendingly.

“That was a joke,” I said.

He smiled and moved towards my bulletin board. I’d filled it with campaign buttons from long-ago elections and with pictures of my kids.

“How many children do you have?” he asked.

“Four,” I said. “The two you met when we came out to Regina Beach, a daughter who’s married and running a catering business in Saskatoon, and a son who’s at the vet college.”

“Have any of your children ever got themselves into a real mess?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said. “I’ve got into a few real messes myself. It seems to come with living a life.”

He looked so miserable that I wanted to put my arms around him, but I knew that the most prudent course was simply to give him an opening. “Val, you don’t need to be oblique with me,” I said. “I know about Kellee Savage.”

At the sound of her name he recoiled as if he’d taken a blow.

“It’s all right,” I said quickly. “I don’t believe what she’s saying about you. In fact, I’ve decided to talk to her about the damage she’s doing, not just to you but to everybody, including herself.”

“Don’t!” he shouted. The word seemed to explode in the quiet room. Val winced with embarrassment. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t talk to her … please. Don’t get involved.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he ran out of the room.

I went after him, but by the time I got to the door, he was already out of sight. The hall was empty. I was furious: furious at myself for handling the situation badly and furious at Kellee Savage for creating it in the first place.

Ten minutes later, when Ed Mariani stuck his head in, I was still upset.

“Ready for an office-mate?” he asked.

“Am I ever,” I said. “Make yourself at home.” I pointed to the bookshelf nearest the window. “There’s the kettle and
the Earl Grey, and, as you can see, the cups and saucers are right next to it.”

“Since everything’s so handy, why don’t I make us some tea?” Ed said. He picked up the kettle and padded out of the office. When he came back, he plugged the kettle in and eased into the student chair across the desk from me. He was such a big man, it was a tight fit.

“Do you want to trade?” I asked.

As he raised himself out of his chair, he smiled at me gratefully. “I’ll try not to be here when you are.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Ed put a bag in each cup, poured in boiling water, then settled happily into my chair.

“So was Kellee Savage in class today?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

Ed raised an eyebrow. “I think I’d better just go ahead and tell the students about their placements. They’ve waited long enough.”

“Yes, they have,” I said, and I was surprised at how acerbic I sounded. “Ed, do you understand why Kellee Savage was the one who got the internship with the
Globe?”

“No,” he said, “I don’t, and believe me, ever since I saw her name heading up that list, I’ve wondered what Reed saw in her that I didn’t.”

“She works hard,” I said.

He laughed. “No disputing that,” he said. “But there’s no imagination in her work, nothing that takes you into any deeper understanding of what she’s writing about.”

“How well do you know her?” I asked.

“The J school is small,” he said, “so we’re a lot tighter with our students than you are in Arts. By the time the kids graduate we’ve usually had them in a couple of classes, we’ve helped them with practical skills like interviewing, we’ve supervised their independent projects, and we’ve spent
time with them socially. Not that Kellee has ever been exactly a party girl.” He picked up my mug. “Weak or strong?” he asked.

“Strong.”

“A woman after my own heart,” he said. “What’s that old Irish saying? ‘When I makes tay, I makes tay, and when I makes water, I makes water.’ Anyway, what I remember most about Kellee Savage is the obituary she wrote.”

“Of whom?”

“Of herself. It’s an exercise most J schools assign in Print Journalism I. It’s partly to teach students how to make words count, and partly to help them focus on their goals. Most of the obits the kids write are depressingly Canadian. You know: ‘his accomplishments were few, but he was always decent and caring.’ Kellee’s was different. The writing was predictably pedestrian, but she had such extravagant ambitions, and she did have one glorious line. ‘Kellee Savage was a great journalist, because although no one ever noticed her, she was there.’ ”

I shuddered, “That’s certainly gnomic.”

“Isn’t it?” he said. He put a spoon into my mug, pressed out the last of the tea and fished out the bag. “I believe your tea is ready, Madam.”

After I picked Taylor up from her friend Jess Stephens’s house, we drove to Lakeview Court to feed Julie’s fish. For Taylor, most chores were obstacles to be dispatched speedily, so she could get on with the real business of her life, but Julie’s fish intrigued her, and she gave her full attention to feeding them. She had developed a routine, and I watched as she pulled a needlepoint-covered bench close to the tank, kicked off her shoes, climbed up on the bench, and shook the fish food carefully over the surface of the water. When she was done, she jumped down, pressed her face against the
glass, and watched as the minute particles drifted down through the water, driving the fish crazy.

We watched for a few minutes, then I said, “We have to boogie, T. I haven’t even thought about dinner yet.”

“I have,” Taylor said. “Why don’t we have paella?”

“Why don’t we have fish and chips?” I said. “I think there’s a coupon for Captain Jack’s at home.” I looked at my watch. “Angus has a practice at six-thirty, so I might as well call the Captain from here.”

When I went into the kitchen to use the phone, the light from the answering machine on Julie’s desk was blinking. I hit the button, and a woman’s voice, pleasantly contralto, filled the quiet room. “Reed, it’s Annalie. It’s Sunday, ten p.m. my time, so that’s nine yours. My husband and I were at our cabin for the weekend, so I just got your message. It was such a shock to hear your voice after all these years. It’s funny, I thought I’d feel vindicated when you finally figured out the truth, but all I can manage is a sort of dull rage.” She paused. When she spoke again, her voice was tight. “I guess Santayana was right: ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ But Reed, remembering isn’t enough. Now that you know what happened, you have an obligation to make sure there are no more repetitions. If you want to talk, my number is area code 416 …,” she laughed. “Of course, you have my number, don’t you?” There was a click and the line went dead.

I rewound the tape and played it again. It still didn’t ring any bells for me, but while Annalie’s message was perplexing, her voice was a pleasure to listen to: musical and theatrically precise in its pronunciations. It was a professionally trained voice, and as I archived her message, I found myself wondering what part the enigmatic Annalie had played in the past that Reed Gallagher had chosen not to remember.

When we got home, Alex was there. I asked him to stay for dinner, but he insisted on paying.

“If I’d known you were picking up the tab,” I said, “I would have ordered Captain Jack’s world-famous paella.”

Taylor was placing knives and forks around the table in a pattern that a generous eye might have seen as a series of place settings. When she heard the word “paella,” she swivelled around to face me. “We could still order some.” She narrowed her eyes. “That was one of your jokes, wasn’t it, Jo?”

“It was,” I said, “and you fell for it.”

After Taylor sailed off, I poured Alex a Coke, made myself a gin and tonic, and we sat down at the kitchen table to exchange the news of the day. When I told Alex about the message on the Gallaghers’ answering machine, he tensed with interest.

“That was the whole thing?”

“I archived it, if you want to hear it yourself. What do you make of it?”

Alex centred his Coke glass carefully on the placemat. “It doesn’t sound good. All that talk about dull rage and vindication and making sure there are no more repetitions of history sounds like Reed Gallagher was getting hit with some pretty heavy stuff from the past.”

“I wonder if that’s what he and Julie quarrelled about the night before he died.”

He whistled softly. “Could be. Then to relieve tension after their fight, Gallagher went down to Scarth Street, broke into a rooming house, pulled on his pantyhose, opened the poppers, and tried his hand at erotic strangulation.” He shook his head in a gesture of dismissal. “This still doesn’t feel right to me, Jo. But we haven’t got anything else. We’ve talked to everybody we can come up with. We’ve gone over that room on Scarth Street with the proverbial fine-tooth
comb, and Splatter’s spent so much time on Gallagher’s body that we’re telling him it must be love. Still, all we’ve got is what we started with – accidental death.”

“So what’s next?”

Alex shrugged. “Nothing. That’s it. No leads. No evidence. No case. They’re ready to release the body, so we’ll need a signature. I’ll have to phone Mrs. G. – unless, of course, you want to volunteer.”

“You’re buying dinner,” I said. “I’ll call.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “I got the best of that deal.”

“I know you did,” I said. “But I’m keeping track.”

After dinner, Angus talked Alex into letting him drive the Audi over to his basketball practice. As I watched the Audi lurch onto Albert Street, I decided if Alex could be heroic, I could too. I squared my shoulders, marched back inside, and dialled the number where Julie said she could be reached.

The listing was in Port Hope, a pretty town of turn-of-the-century elegance on Lake Ontario. I’d spent a summer there when I was young. Luckily, my memories were happy ones, because I had plenty of time to recollect summers past before Julie finally picked up the phone.

She did not sound happy to hear from me, and I didn’t waste time on pleasantries. When I told her that the police were releasing Reed’s body, she was curt. “I’ll take care of it,” she said. Then, mechanically, like a child remembering an etiquette lesson, she added, “Thank you for calling.”

I thought of the last time I’d seen her. She had seemed so alone the night she dropped her keys by my house. “Julie, wait,” I said. “Call me when you know your flight time. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

Her tone was incredulous. “Why would I go back there? Hasn’t he already humiliated me enough?”

“You can’t just leave him,” I said. “Somebody has to sign for the body and make funeral arrangements.”

“There isn’t going to be a funeral.” She laughed bitterly. “What could people possibly say about the dear departed?”

The next morning, Ed Mariani and I had tea together in the office before class, and I told him about Julie’s decision to bury Reed without any formal ceremony. Ed was furious.

“Damn it, Joanne, I never liked that woman, and it turns out I was right. Reed was a good man. He needs to be remembered, and the people who cared about him need to take stock of what they’ve lost.”

“I suppose if Julie doesn’t want to handle it, Reed’s colleagues at the university could organize a memorial service.”

Ed nodded agreement. “We could, and we should. But you and I aren’t the colleagues who were closest to Reed.”

“Tom Kelsoe,” I said. “He’s the one whose history with Reed goes back the farthest. He was Reed’s student. Reed gave him his first job, and from what I heard at the time, Tom was the real mover and shaker in getting Reed appointed as director of Journalism.”

Ed cocked an eyebrow. “So they say.”

I felt my face go hot with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Ed. You didn’t need to be reminded of that.”

“No,” he said, “I didn’t, but it wasn’t your doing. Now come on. Let’s get back to the memorial service.”

“Somebody should call Tom, so we can get some people together and make the arrangements,” I said.

Ed looked away. “Joanne, I’ll help in any way I can, but I don’t want to have anything to do with Kelsoe.”

I waited, but Ed didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask him to. Instead, I reached for the phone and dialled Tom’s office number. When an operator came on and told me the line was no longer in service, I remembered the chaos in the Journalism offices, and dialled Tom’s apartment.

I had just about decided he wasn’t there when Jill Osiowy picked up the phone. She sounded distracted, and for a beat I worried that I’d got her at a bad moment, then I remembered the scene at the Chimney Saturday night, and I hoped, childishly, that her morning had been filled with bad moments.