The Gifted (12 page)

Brock Poitras towered over me. He had a black brush cut, tawny skin, and a smile that came slowly but was worth waiting for. His first words to me were praise for my older daughter, so of course I liked him immediately.

“Elder Beauvais tells me you’re Mieka Kilbourn’s mother,” he said. “She’s remarkable.”

“I agree,” I said. “How did you and Mieka come to know each other?”

“As part of Blackwell’s initiative to show that it has a heart, the company sent me to deliver a cheque to your daughter’s new play centre.”

“Actually, April’s Place is a community play centre, but Mieka and her friend Lisa Wallace are getting it off the ground.”

“Mieka showed me around,” Brock said. “I was impressed.”

“The grand opening’s at noon on November 30. Why don’t you come? There’ll be bannock and venison stew.”

“Then I’m there.” Brock pulled out his smartphone and made a note of the event. “Bannock and venison stew are in short supply at Blackwell,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong. Blackwell is a good place to work, and James Loftus is a great
boss, but I’ve wanted to do something in the community for a long time.”

“Now’s your chance,” I said.

“And I don’t want to blow it,” Brock said. “I don’t want to be the guy who’s just there for the photo op. Mieka says you and Zack have been involved with Racette-Hunter from the beginning. If you have any ideas about how I can contribute, bring them on.”

I laughed. “Well, you asked for it. Last night Zack and I were talking about getting people in North Central more involved in civic politics. Is that something you might be interested in?”

Brock frowned. “I’m not very political.”

“Electile dysfunction,” I said. “There’s a lot of that going around. Zack didn’t vote in the last election. He was complaining last night about the mayor, and I told him that we get the government we deserve.”

“Ouch,” Brock said. “Time to turn the corner?”

“I think so. The next civic election is eleven months away,” I said. “We could get a solid ground operation going by then.”

“I’m a rookie,” Brock said. “I’ll need a playbook.”

“I’ve spent years working in electoral politics,” I said. “We can work on a playbook together.”

Brock grinned. “Okay,” he said. “I’m in.”

I touched his arm. “And I’m grateful,” I said.

Ernest began the meeting with the same prayer he used at the start of all our meetings: “Great Spirit – Grant us strength and dignity to walk a new trail.”

Margot gave a brief overview of the subjects the meeting would deal with. Then she beckoned Brock to join her. “I have some very good news,” she said.

Margot’s introduction of Brock was fulsome. After she
announced that Brock would be working with them on a six-month secondment, he rose to offer a brief and gracious acknowledgement of his welcome. Riel did not join in the applause that greeted Brock’s words.

The individual reports from the various teams were all positive. The auction had surpassed expectations – financially and in terms of positive publicity and patron satisfaction. The on-site Christmas photo shoot had been a success and holiday cards would be mailed out to Racette-Hunter’s donors and potential donors the first week in December. The construction of the centre was ahead of schedule, and if all the variables continued to break our way, a Labour Day opening was definitely on track.

As the reports were delivered my focus kept shifting to Lauren. She could easily have come up with an excuse to stay away from the meeting, but not only had she come, she’d positioned herself next to Zack, who was the meeting’s chair. Lauren was refusing to be a victim. With a model’s instinct, she had chosen a look that would merit attention: a Mondrian print tunic top, black leggings, and tall black boots. Her makeup was careful and her hair was sleek. She had again covered her injured eye with the rakish black leather eye patch, and when she delivered her report on fundraising and development, she held her head high, proud of her success.

After the last report was delivered, Ernest stood to offer a closing prayer. But before he could begin, Riel cut him off. “I have a question for our new committee member, Brock,” Riel said. “Exactly what is your function at Racette-Hunter, bro?”

There was no mistaking the antagonism in Riel’s voice. Brock was cool. “Joanne and I talked about that before the meeting. We thought that I might approach people in North Central and talk about how they can organize to elect a mayor and councillors who will represent their interests.”

“So you’d be doing community liaison work,” Riel said, and his voice was tight with anger.

“Something like that,” Brock said. “Elder Beauvais is about to say the closing prayer. Why don’t we listen, and then you and I can go someplace for coffee and talk?”

It was an olive branch, but Riel didn’t take it. He jumped to his feet. “There’s nothing to talk about, bro. I may not have an M.B.A., but I’m smart enough to know when I’m being pushed aside.”

Riel stormed out of the room, kicking at the leg of the table on his way, startling everyone. I stood, but Ernest Beauvais put his hand on my arm. “Give him a chance to let what he’s doing sink in,” he said softly. Then Ernest bowed his head and began the prayer.

As we left Margot’s, my thoughts were with Riel, but Lauren was waiting outside the door and she, too, had a problem. “Have you heard from Vince, Zack?”

Zack shook his head. “Let’s go to our place,” he said. “We shouldn’t be talking about this out here.”

Lauren and I sat on the stools at the butcher-block table and Zack pulled his wheelchair up beside her. She removed the patch from her eye. “I thought this thing might make it easier for people to deal with me, but it’s so irritating,” she said. Zack examined her eye closely. The black and blue bruising appeared to have spread, and the eye itself was bloodshot. “Have you seen a doctor about that?” Zack asked.

Lauren’s laugh was hollow. “Just Vince,” she said. “Zack, I had no idea that
BlueBoy21
was a painting of Julian. You have to believe me. Darrell and Kaye handled the art. I saw the names of the artists and the descriptions of their pieces, but except for the star blanket we used in the advertising, I never saw the pieces.”

“So Julian was the man that Vince found you with,” Zack said.

Lauren’s nod was almost imperceptible.

Zack’s tone was firm but not condemning. “What you and Vince are doing to each other is brutal. Lauren, Vince was drinking last night.”

“He hasn’t had a drink in all the time we’ve been married.”

“Well, now he has,” Zack said.

“Because he recognized the boy in the picture,” she said.

“Yes,” Zack said softly. “Another man might have run away when he recognized Julian, but Vince—”

“Was determined to watch me suffer,” Lauren said.

Zack was keeping his temper under control, but I could see from the pulse in his neck that it was costing him. “You weren’t the only person who suffered last night, Lauren.”

“I’m aware of that,” she said. “I wish I knew what to do next.”

Zack sighed. “That makes two of us. But the first order of business is to find Vince. I tried a few of the hotels he used to stay at when he was drinking but no luck. I also tried the hospital. They were tight-lipped. Were you able to get any information from them?”

“I didn’t try,” Lauren said. “I was embarrassed to ask strangers about my husband.”

“You’re going to have to get past that,” Zack said curtly. “Finding Vince is the priority.”

Lauren removed her cell from her yellow leather over-the-shoulder bag. In less than a minute, we knew that the news was not good. Vince had called the hospital saying he had urgent family business and requesting that his surgeries for the next week be reassigned or rescheduled.

“He’s never done that,” Lauren said. “No matter what happened, Vince’s patients always came first.”

“We have to find him,” Zack said. “Before Vince joined
AA
, there were many weekends when all he did was drink. He can’t go that route again. There’s a private detective agency the firm uses – they’re good and they’re discreet. I’ll call them, but I’ll need the licence number of Vince’s Mercedes.”

“Vince wasn’t driving his car when he left the hotel,” Lauren said. “He was driving my
SUV
. He told the parking valet that the painting wouldn’t fit in the Mercedes and that he needed the extra room.” Lauren wrote down the description and the licence number of her Land Rover and handed it to Zack. “This isn’t much to go on,” she said.

“We may not need it,” Zack said. “It’s entirely possible that Vince will call.”

Lauren stood. “Don’t hold your breath waiting for the phone to ring,” she said. At which point, of course, our landline rang.

I answered. It was Darrell Bell. He was a man of uncommon equanimity, but he sounded agitated. “Jo, there’s a situation with the painting Vince Treadgold purchased last night.”

“What kind of situation?” I asked.

Darrell’s laugh was short. “This is going to sound like something from a bad movie, but I just got a phone call from a man who says he has
BlueBoy21 –
more accurately, he said that he has the painting that was in the paper this morning. The one that’s worth $25,000.”

“Where are you?”

“Still in your building’s parking garage.”

“Can you come up here? Lauren and Zack and I are at our place.”

“I’ll be right there,” he said.

“So what’s happening?” Zack asked.

“Darrell had a call from a man who says he has
BlueBoy21
.”

Lauren’s voice was even. “What happened to Vince?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

When Darrell arrived and joined us at the table, Zack pushed his chair back so he could see the three of us. “I guess the first question is how the man on the phone knew to call you,” Zack said.

“No mystery there,” Darrell said. “He called the Racette-Hunter office and said he needed to get in touch with somebody about the art auction. They gave him my number.”

“So who are we dealing with?” Zack said.

“My guess is it’s a young guy trying to sound tough. He says if we want to see the painting again, we should call him back and arrange for a meeting place. He also says to bring cash.”

“And, let me guess,” Zack said, “if we involve the police, all bets are off.”

Darrell raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve seen the movie, too.”

“Yep,” Zack said. “Give me the tough guy’s number. I’ll arrange the meeting, but, Darrell, I’d like you to come with me to make sure the painting hasn’t been damaged.”

Lauren remained composed. “Did this man say how he came to have the painting?”

Darrel shook his head. “All he said was that
BlueBoy21
was in his possession.”

“We’ll know more soon,” Zack said.

He dialled the number Darrell had given him and introduced himself, saying that he was a lawyer and that, as long as no major laws had been broken, he was ready to do business.

When he hung up, Zack gave us the broad strokes. “The guy says he was walking past the parking lot of the Sears discount store a little after midnight last night. He noticed that the hatch of an
SUV
in the lot was open, so he went over to investigate. He spotted the crate, figured it contained a flat-screen
TV
, and took it home so it would be ‘out of harm’s
way.’ Imagine his dismay when the flat-screen
TV
turned out to be ‘a fucking painting.’ ”

“He must have been delighted when he picked up the morning paper and discovered what the painting was worth,” I said.

“So the
SUV
and the painting were in the parking lot,” Lauren said. “Where is Vince?”

Zack rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“There must have been an accident,” Lauren said.

“If there was an accident, Vince walked away from it,” Zack said. “You would have heard something by now if he’d been injured. And the guy didn’t say anything about the
SUV
being damaged. I don’t want to involve the police, but it’s your call, Lauren.”

Lauren shook her head vehemently. “No police yet,” she said. “Let’s keep this private.”

Zack was sanguine about the meeting in the parking lot. As he pointed out, it was daylight and the Sears discount store was a busy place. I volunteered to go along with Lauren and drive one of the Treadgold cars back. I tried to make my suggestion sound matter-of-fact, but a man in a wheelchair is an easy target and if something went wrong I wanted to be with Zack.

Nothing did. The exchange of cash for the painting was smooth. As Darrell had deduced, the Good Samaritan was young – probably late teens or early twenties – a thin, jumpy Caucasian boy. Beneath his lower lip was the small triangle of facial hair my students referred to as a womb broom. After Darrell had examined
BlueBoy21
and pronounced it unharmed, Zack handed over the second half of the payment. The Good Samaritan couldn’t sprint away fast enough.

Darrell slid
BlueBoy21
into the back of the Land Rover. Lauren clearly didn’t want to let the painting out of her
sight, so I agreed to drive the Mercedes back to her home on Albert Street, where Zack would in turn pick me up.

Zack stopped Lauren before she climbed into the driver’s seat. “I noticed that the right headlight of your car is broken.”

Lauren seemed distracted. “I’ll call and make an appointment when I get home.”

“Better sooner than later,” Zack said.

Lauren’s voice was frosty. “I said I’d call.”

“Good,” Zack said. “No use letting a small problem become a big problem.”

During Zack and Lauren’s exchange, Darrell’s cell rang. His call was short, and when he broke the connection, his grin was puckish. “Here’s where it’s fun to be an art dealer. That call was from the guy who bid against you last night. He wants to buy
Two Painters
. Name your price.”

“It’s not for sale,” Zack said. “Come on, Darrell. You know that.”

“I do,” Darrell agreed. “And I told my potential client you’d never sell, but he insisted that I try.”

“And you tried,” Zack said. “Look, I don’t want to be churlish. Does your client live here in the city?”