Burying Ariel (30 page)

Taylor held out the rope to show me. “I got this for helping with garbage patrol.”

“Very fancy,” I said. “I used to get a new rope every spring.”

She looked at me with amazement. “Can you skip?”

“Can Wayne Gretzky score goals?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “can he?”

“Not so many any more,” I said. “But I haven’t retired. Why don’t you give Bruce and Benny a rest and let me have a turn?”

The moment I began to skip, the tensions of the day dropped away. Salvation through muscle memory. Taylor watched, saucer-eyed, as I not only skipped, but rattled through my store of old skipping songs.

When Angus pulled up, he took in the scene, jumped out of his car, and yelled, “You go, Mum.” And I did. I skipped until there wasn’t a breath left in my body and my heart felt as if it was about to exit through my chest wall. By the time the kids gave me a round of applause and I quit, my ears were singing, but I’d banished my memory of Ann Vogel and her staple gun, and increased my odds of getting through the evening.

“Okay,” I panted. “Show’s over. I’d better go in there and act like a mother. Taylor, since you’re the headliner today, you get to choose dinner. Make it simple. I’ve already done my star turn.”

“Sloppy Joes the way Nik Manojlovich makes them on
TV
. He’s so funny.”

“Good choice,” I said. “I can manage Sloppy Joes. Besides, they’re portable, and I thought we’d watch the news while we ate supper tonight. I want to tape you winning your prize.”

At 5:30 on the button, we were sitting in the family room with plates filled with Sloppy Joes, potato chips, and raw vegetables balanced on our
TV
tables, the perfect fifties family – minus the father. Unfortunately, our television wasn’t showing “Leave it to Beaver” or “Don Messer’s Jubilee.” The news began with brief accounts of the investigation into Ariel’s murder and the battle that had erupted between the Friends of Red Riding Hood and their popular host, Charlie D. There was a live shot of the concrete and glass boxes that housed the station’s deep-discount neighbours, then the camera closed in for a tight shot of the
CVOX
call letters, lingering on the lascivious Mick Jagger tongue that wagged from the red-lipped open mouth of the O. The first of the buses that had been scheduled to arrive in time for live coverage pulled up, and the Friends of Red Riding Hood piled out.

In all there were perhaps twenty-five protestors, and the NationTV reporter, a dark-haired beauty named Jen Quesnel, struggled to keep the report lively as the Friends handed out their placards and milled about, trying to decide on their next move. As Jen reported that the turnout was surprisingly small, Ann Vogel muscled her way into camera range and began a chant that was picked up by the others. The words were simple and cruel. “Show us your face, Charlie D. Show us your face.”

But nothing happened. Not even a bird disturbed the eerie calm at the entrance to the radio station. No buses arrived carrying reinforcements, and the meagre crowd of protestors, embarrassed by the ragged quality of its cry, grew silent. Caught in the middle of what was clearly a non-event, Jen Quesnel began to wrap up her story.

Throughout the newscast, Eli had been as motionless as if he were carved in stone. Now he relaxed. “It was a bust,” he said. “And I’m glad because what those people are saying is really shitty.” He darted a glance in my direction. “Pardon my language.”

“No pardon necessary,” I said. “What they’re saying really is shitty.”

Eli laughed. When he was happy, his face became animated and open. It was a sight in which I always took pleasure, but that night the pleasure was short-lived.

Suddenly, he leaned forward, his eyes riveted once more on the screen. “Charlie’s coming out,” he said. I turned my attention back to the television in time to see Charlie walk through the front doors of
CVOX
. He was alone, and he moved deliberately from the shadow of the building into the light. A slight figure in bluejeans and a T-shirt, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He made no attempt to cover his face or hide it.

Jen Quesnel ran over to him with her microphone. They exchanged glances, then she said, “So, Charlie, people want to hear what you’re thinking right now.”

Before he had a chance to answer, Ann Vogel leaned into the microphone. “Tell the truth, Charlie D. Tell the truth.”

Charlie shrugged his thin shoulders. “You already know it,” he said. “I loved a woman. She’s dead. The beauty in my life is gone. I don’t care what happens next.” Charlie turned to the crowd. “I’m here,” he said, raising his arms in a gesture of surrender. “Do what you want.”

For a few seconds, the camera stayed on Charlie; then it moved to Ann Vogel for a reaction shot. Her face registered disbelief, then anger.

“This is a trick,” she said. “We won’t let you get away with it.” She turned to her supporters. “Will we?” But her dispirited followers were already straggling towards the bus.

Jen Quesnel looked into the camera. “Apparently the Friends of Red Riding Hood have decided on a change in strategy. That’s it from our location at
CVOX
. Now back to Kathy in the studio.”

Kathy did an item on a house fire in the inner city, then one on the robbery of a convenience store. After the announcement from the City’s Department of Parks and Recreation of the dates for the opening of outdoor swimming pools, it was our turn. Bev Pilon and Livia Brook were on the screen.

“Hit record on the
VCR
,” I said to Angus.

He grimaced in exasperation and waved the remote control in the air. “I already have, Mum.”

Beside Bev’s polished Technicolor sheen, Livia looked wan and schoolmarmish, but NationTV did include Livia’s anecdote about Ben, and they spelled her name right. They spelled Taylor’s name right, too, and I squeezed my daughter’s hand when I saw that she had asked to be identified as Taylor Kilbourn. As she explained her work to the interviewer she was poised and polite; equally important from my perspective, her turtleneck was spotless, her kilt untwisted, and only one of her braids had come undone. In all, it was a virtuoso performance, and the phone began to ring the minute it was over.

The first call was from Mieka in Saskatoon. “I hope you taped that,” she said. “Maddy was hollering, so I missed the first part, but Taylor looked sensational and her painting is terrific.
Mouseland!
Any other day, Uncle Howard would have been bursting his buttons.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Any other day.”

Mieka’s voice was concerned. “Mum, what’s going to happen to Charlie?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I expect he doesn’t, either. When I hear from Howard, I’ll fill you in. Now, Taylor’s at my elbow, longing to hear you tell her how fabulous she was, so I’m going to hand you over. Give everybody a hug for me.”

As soon as Taylor hung up, the phone rang again. My younger daughter chatted happily for five minutes, then handed the receiver to me. It was my old friend Hilda McCourt, calling to say she was proud of Taylor and worried about Charlie. The third phone call was from Ed Mariani, who was also proud and worried. By the time the fourth call came, my Sloppy Joe was lukewarm and soggy and I’d had enough interruptions.

“Leave it,” I shouted, but Taylor had already answered. She held out the phone to me.

“For you,” she said brightly.

It took me a moment to identify the voice on the other end. Bebe Morrissey was a woman who didn’t waste time on preamble, and obviously she worked on the assumption that once you’d met her, you wouldn’t forget her.

“I need to talk to you,” she said.

“Bebe, can I call you back? We’re just in the middle of dinner.”

“Don’t put me off,” she said. “This is important. On the news tonight, that little kid with the drawing was your daughter, right?”

“Right,” I said. “But why is that important?”

“I’m ninety-five years old, and I need to make sure I’ve got everybody straight in my mind,” she said irritably. “Now, the bottle blonde who gave your kid the flag and the pin was that right-winger, Bev Pilon.”

I smiled to myself. “Right,” I said.

“And the other one, the pasty-faced one, was – hang on, I wrote it down – Livia Brook, head of the department of Political Science.”

“Right again. Look, Bebe, I don’t mean to be rude, but my dinner is stone cold. Why don’t you let me nuke it, eat it, and call you back?”

“Because I live with a silent killer, high blood pressure, and by the time you call back, I could be dead. Now listen, I’ve made a serious mistake. Remember when I told you I saw Ariel Warren having that fight with her mother?”

“I remember,” I said; then, in an attempt to speed her along, I provided Bebe with a quick recap of the incident. “After Ariel said that she had to do what she thought was best because she only had one life, her mother said, ‘You have two lives because I gave you mine.’ You and I agreed that it was a pretty ugly thing to say to your own flesh and blood.”

Bebe cackled triumphantly. “Except – and this is my point – the woman who said that wasn’t Ariel’s flesh and blood. It was the other one, with the pasty face.”

“Livia?” I asked.

“Yes,” Bebe said, “Livia Brook, head of the department of Political Science. She was the one who told Ariel that she’d given her her life.”

The pieces of the puzzle rearranged themselves, falling into place to reveal a truth that was as ugly as it was inescapable. Livia had been the woman Ariel had feared, the woman who, while insisting that all she wanted was Ariel’s happiness, had been unable to accept Ariel’s choice of a life that didn’t include her. Livia was the woman who had done “terrible things.” Unbidden, a memory surged into my consciousness: Ann Vogel in the Political Science office bragging about her role in getting Solange her job. Ann had said, “What Livia and I did wasn’t pretty, but it was necessary,” and Livia had silenced her. At the time, I had believed Livia was trying to put an end to a quarrel; now, it was clear that her motivation was far from altruistic. She had, I realized, been trying to shut Ann down before she said too much.

For a beat, shock froze me. Then I felt the lash of panic. This wasn’t over. Solange wouldn’t let it be over until she found the woman Ariel had feared. The fact that Solange had been looking for Maryse Bergman suggested that the pieces of the puzzle were coming together for her, too.

By now, I knew Solange’s home and office numbers by heart. When there was no answer at either place, I grabbed my car keys.

Angus had just rewound the tape, so that Taylor could see herself again. “I’m going to make a quick trip to the university,” I said. “There’s something I have to check on.”

“What’s up? You haven’t even finished supper.”

“Just stick it in the fridge for me, will you, Angus? I’ll get it later.”

Taylor was wholly absorbed in watching herself, but my son was on his feet. “You look kind of weird. Is everything okay?”

Eli, always sensitive to problems, shifted position so he could check out the situation as well.

I took in their worried faces and decided against setting off any alarms. “Just university politics,” I said. “A problem involving a couple of colleagues.”

Angus grinned. “I’ll bet you a loonie that one of them is Dr. Coyle.”

“You lose,” I said.

Ten minutes later, as I pulled off the Parkway, I thought I’d give a bag full of loonies to see Kevin’s old boat of a Buick in its usual spot. My bank account was safe; the parking lot was deserted. I was deflated but not surprised. It was a gentle Friday night in spring. There was no reason for anyone to be at the university. But when I walked towards the main door of College West, I saw that someone was. A solitary bike was chained to the rack. The apprehension that had been shadowing me like the black cloud over the head of Joe Bfstplk in the old “Li’l Abner” cartoons deepened. I wasn’t an expert on bikes, but I knew this one. It was Solange’s Trek
WSD
.

I began to run. My footfalls echoed as I padded down the empty corridors and through the silent halls. When I got to the Classroom Building, I decided against taking the elevator. It had been unpredictable all week, and I couldn’t do much for Solange if I was trapped between floors. I raced up the stairs. By the time I got to the third floor, my heart was thumping harder than it had when I’d completed my triumphant skipping exhibition. This time there was no applause.

I went straight to Solange’s office and began pounding at her door. “It’s Joanne, Solange. Let me in.” There was no response, then, very faintly, a sound halfway between a moan and a cry. I tried the door. It was locked. I put my mouth to the door edge. “It’s going to be all right,” I said. “I’m getting help.” Then I ran to my office to call for an ambulance.

I couldn’t seem to get the key to catch. Finally, its teeth gripped the lock and the door opened. I rushed to my desk and reached across to pick up the phone. My back was to the door. An arm shot past me from behind. The knife was at my throat before I had time to be afraid. And that was a blessing, because the person holding the knife was shaking so violently it seemed possible she might sever my throat accidentally. It would have been a Sam Peckinpah death: stupid and brutal. Oddly, the sheer craziness of that image calmed me enough to think about my next step. I knew that I had to slow my assailant’s rhythm to match my own. The question was,
How?
I managed to inhale; the scent of Pears soap, so familiar and so reassuring, gave me the answer. My best hope lay in a pattern of behaviour Livia herself had perfected. Ed Mariani had always called it coercion by compassion, and at the moment it was the only game in town.

“This must be a nightmare for you,” I said.

Livia shivered and I felt the cool brush of silk against my bare arm. From the corner of my eye, I saw that she was wearing the poppy shawl that had been Ariel’s parting gift to her.

“It is.” Livia’s dreamy New Age nuances made her sound like a woman in a trance. The woman whose byword was “No Surprises” had been surprised once too often. “No one ever comes to the office on a Friday night in the spring,” she said.