The Last Good Day (7 page)

“And you let the matter drop?”

“I was advised to …”

“By whom?”

“By the detective. He said I should drop the case, that people are complex and that sometimes their behaviour is inexplicable.”

“Sounds condescending,” I said.

“The words do,” Anne said. “But if you could have seen his face …” She shook her head, as if to clear the memory. “He seemed to be wrestling with something. At the time I thought his superiors had told him to put a lid on the case, so I tried to psych him out. I told him if the police weren’t going to find Clare Mackey, I would.”

“Did he try to stop you?”

“No. His response was quite bizarre. For the longest time he just stared at me. Finally, he said, ‘Sometimes when the pressures get to be too much, people walk away.’ You know, Joanne, I don’t think he was talking about Clare at all. I think he was talking about himself.”

“It sounds as if he should be reported. Do you remember his name?”

“It was a hard one to forget. He was aboriginal. His name was Alex Kequahtooway.”

I tried to keep my voice steady. “I don’t suppose you remember exactly when you talked to him.”

“Oh, but I do,” Anne said. “It was my birthday. November 30.”

I looked down at my hands. They were trembling as if they belonged to a very old lady or a very sick one. November 30 was the date on which Alex had ended our three-year relationship.

I’d planned to drive straight back to the lake, but my conversation with Anne Millar had been a stunner, so I drove home instead. The story of Clare Mackey had been deeply unsettling; it had also opened a Pandora’s box that I’d hoped I’d finally managed to nail shut. I needed time to absorb Anne’s story, but I also needed time to regroup.

My breakup with Alex had been, as these things often are, both a shock and a relief. We had never lived together, but we had created a life together that I thought had fulfilled us both. Unmarried, Alex had a nephew, Eli, who was the same age as Angus, and after a few false starts our families had blended seamlessly. Our pleasures were domestic: crosscountry skiing, watching videos, going to Roughrider games or the symphony, being together. At our best, we stretched one another’s spirits, and even at our worst, we had been passionate.

Our relationship was not ideal. The fact that I was ten years older than he had never been an issue; the fact that I was white and Alex was aboriginal had been a wound that never healed. Alex was one of the gentlest human beings I’d ever known; he was also one of the angriest, and the rage never left him. For long periods we would be happy, but just when I believed the anger had been quenched, it would flare up in a blaze that consumed us both. Alex would wall himself off and become, in one of the buzzwords of our day, emotionally unavailable.

In the months before our breakup, the walls never seemed to come down. Nothing I did or said could dent his armour of anger. When he told me we were through, I was relieved but I was also bewildered. I genuinely didn’t understand what had gone wrong. Anne’s portrait of Alex’s state of mind on the day we broke up offered a flash of insight, but it also raised questions far too vexing for a hot summer afternoon. What was the source of the pressures Alex had been experiencing? He was a man who believed in the value of police work, yet he had blown off Anne Millar, dismissed her very real concerns as if they were less than nothing. He had also dismissed me. Tempting as it was to blame Lily Falconer for everything that had gone wrong, I couldn’t convince myself that Alex’s attraction for her could change the man he was.

It was a relief to peel off my funeral clothes and put on a sundress and sandals. In a perfect world, changing clothes would have transformed my mood, but even the summery lightness of a cotton dress and bare legs didn’t raise my spirits. I wasn’t surprised. This was not shaping up to be a summer of easy solutions.

Angus had asked me to bring back some of his
CDS
. When I went into the family room to get them, I noticed my laptop, still in its carrying case, propped against the bookshelf. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t take a computer to the lake, that this summer I would recreate the innocence of the pre-information-technology world at the pristine beach and sparkling water known as Lawyers’ Bay. But now isolation was no longer an option – I needed to be connected to the world that lay beyond our privileged half-moon of lakefront cottages. I picked up the laptop, slung the strap over my shoulder, and headed for Paradise Lost.

My radio was tuned to a community-station show that featured up-and-coming young artists. As I turned off the highway onto the road that wound through the Qu’Appelle Valley to the lake, the twenty-something deejay announced that the next selection was by a group called the nancy ray-guns. The name of the song was “Windigo,” and the deejay said it was the tale of a giant stone shape-changer who fed on human flesh. Perfect drive-home music.

When I stopped at the Point Store to pick up Taylor, everything was reassuringly ordinary. The old men of Coffee Row were sitting under the cottonwood trees spinning tales, and the store was bustling. It was six o’clock on a hot Saturday evening in July, and wieners, potato chips, hot-dog buns, and mosquito coils were at a premium. Leah was in the front of the store at the till, and Taylor was beside her, bagging groceries.

My younger daughter trumpeted her joy the moment she spotted me. “This has been the best day,” she said. “I got to do everything, and Mr. Gardiner showed Angus how to work the meat grinder and he let me hand him the raw meat.”

Leah raked a hand through her blond bob. “The fun never ends,” she said.

“Had enough?” I asked.

“Actually it is kind of neat,” Leah said. “And as my Aunt Slava would say, ‘That Taylor – she must have been sent by God.’ ”

“Nice to know God has his eye on the Point Store,” I said. “So, T, are you ready to come back to the cottage and have dinner?”

Taylor gave Leah a sidelong glance. “Is it okay if I go?”

“Absolutely,” Leah said. “The store closes at six-thirty sharp.”

“Six-thirty on a Saturday night?” I said. “That surprises me. I would have thought there’d be a lot of last-minute business.”

“Not for us,” Leah said. “Stan Gardiner says if people don’t have what they need by six-thirty, they can’t have needed it very much.”

“Very sensible perspective,” I said.

“Sensible and enlightened,” my son yelled from behind the meat counter. “Leah and I have a barbecue to go to.”

I walked back and checked out the meat cooler. “Anything you can recommend for Taylor and me?”

“There’s one last piece of beef tenderloin,” Angus said thoughtfully. “High-end stuff, but just before you came, Stan told me to sell it for what I could get. He doesn’t believe in keeping meat too long, and he says you ruin meat when you freeze it.”

Taylor and I dined elegantly that night. Beef tenderloin, tiny carrots, fresh peas, and fried bannock, a treat from Rose. After dinner, we took Willie for a walk along the beach. The sun smouldered against the horizon. We were, in that most poetic of phrases, in the gloaming. For years, I’d loved this time of day when the half-light signalled that the passions and frets of a day with kids had burned themselves out and that it was time to indulge in private thoughts. But that night the prospect of being alone with my private thoughts had little appeal.

Chris Altieri’s cottage was in darkness and we hurried past it, but piano music drifted through the open windows at Zack Shreve’s. Tonight, he was playing one of my favourites, Johnny Mercer’s “I Remember You.” The setting sun made a path of light across the silent lake. It was a night for memories, and as we walked along the horseshoe I found myself wondering whether the people inside the cottages were cherishing their memories or wrestling with them.

Taylor had been uncharacteristically quiet on our walk, and she’d been watching me carefully. “You’re not having a good time at the cottage, are you?” she asked.

“It’s been a rough week, Taylor.”

“Isobel says her mum never stops crying.”

“Mrs. Wainberg and Mr. Altieri were good friends,” I said.

“But he was friends with Mrs. Falconer, too, and Gracie says her mother hasn’t cried at all.”

“People react differently,” I said.

Taylor stopped to shake a pebble out of her sandal. “Gracie says her mum and dad fight every night.”

“That’s not good,” I said.

“I wouldn’t want people fighting at our house every night,” Taylor said.

“Neither would I.” I read the worry on her face. “You know what I’m in the mood for?” I asked.

“What?”

“Crazy eights,” I said. “Are you feeling lucky?”

Taylor grinned. “I wasn’t, but I am now.”

Our card game was raucous and diverting. When I tucked Taylor in, she’d lost her careworn look and was planning the next morning’s agenda. I was less keen about seizing the day. Even the prospect of enduring the next few hours was daunting. As far as I could see, my options had narrowed to a classic example of Hobson’s choice: go to bed, stare at the ceiling, and brood about the events of the afternoon, or stay awake, stare at the wall, and brood. The knock at the door was a relief.

Delia Wainberg’s hair was wet and curly, as if she’d just come from a swim or a shower, and she was wearing navy shorts and a white T-shirt. She looked like the kid sister of the haggard, urbane lawyer who strode up the aisle at the funeral Mass.

“Too late for a visit?” she asked.

“Not from you,” I said.

Delia followed me inside, then gestured towards the back porch. “Mind if we play through?”

The silver-dollar ashtray was in the dish drainer beside the sink. I picked it up and handed it to Delia.

“Thanks,” she said. She walked onto the porch, collapsed into the nearest chair, and lit up. “I’m supposed to find out why you blew off the reception today.”

“I ran into an ex-student of mine.”

“I said it was probably something like that.” Delia shrugged. “Anyway, you didn’t miss anything – my face is stiff from being stoic. What kind of sadist invented the post-funeral party anyway?”

“The theory is that the reception gives the bereaved a chance to connect with the living again.”

“Even if that’s the last thing the bereaved want to do?”

“Especially if that’s the last thing the bereaved want to do,” I said.

“I guess I see some logic there,” she said. “Enough chitchat. I’ve been sent to extend an invitation you can’t refuse.”

“Go for it.”

“We’re taking what remains of Chris out on the lake tomorrow morning.” She drew deeply on her cigarette. “His last boat ride, and the consensus is that you should come along.”

“I take it you didn’t lead the march to the consensus.”

“No, I think it’s a stupid idea.”

“I agree. You did your duty. Just report back that I said no.”

“It’s not that simple.” Delia extended a leg and wiggled her foot. She was wearing flip-flops with daisies. Frivolous footwear for a woman on a serious mission. “Anyway, you probably should say yes. Kevin wants you to come.”

“You got in touch with Kevin?”

“Lily did.” Delia arched an eyebrow. “According to her, Kevin would like you to go in his stead.”

“That doesn’t make sense either,” I said. “Kevin and I are friends, but we’re not …”

“You’re not lovers,” she crowed. “I knew it. The others all thought you were – that Kevin had sent you up here this summer to try you out – see how well you fit in with us.”

“That’s bizarre,” I said. “Delia, Kevin walked away from Falconer Shreve because he wanted something else. He’s hardly going to wander all over Tibet so that his ex-partners can check out his new girlfriend.”

“Thanks for the reminder.” Delia’s eyes glittered. “You’re right, of course. Kevin stopped caring about what we thought a long time ago. As far as he’s concerned the Winners’ Circle is dead and Falconer Shreve is just another shitty law firm.”

Delia’s face was grey. It seemed unconscionable to add to her burden. “I’ll be there tomorrow morning,” I said.

Delia slumped with relief. “I owe you,” she said, crushing out her cigarette.

“It’s the least I can do,” I said. “You’ve all been kind to us, and Kevin may not be a lover but he is a friend.”

“Sometimes that’s better,” Delia said. “Less wear and tear on the heart.” She stood, removed a fresh cigarette from her pack, and gave me a small smile. “So I’ll see you at the dock at five? Early, I know, but we wanted to get out on the water before the invasion of the Jet Skis.”

“Five is fine,” I said. “Delia, can I ask you something?”

She tensed. Her fingers still rested on the handle of the screen door, but her voice went unexpectedly hard. “If it’s about the rumour that Chris’s death wasn’t an accident, forget about it. I refuse to give headspace to that theory.”

“No, it’s something else,” I said. “Can you tell me about Clare Mackey?”

I was watching Delia carefully for a reaction. What I got wasn’t subtle. She shuddered as if she’d touched something loathsome. “If you know someone who’s thinking of hiring her, tell them to forget it.”

“She didn’t work out at Falconer Shreve?”

“Au contraire
. She worked out fine – quite the rising star – then she just took off, leaving her files in an absolute mess.”

“Disorganized?”

“Oh, they were beautifully organized. They were also incomplete. A lot of lawyers, me included, carry information about cases around in their head. Sometimes it’s just safer that way. But if circumstances change, and you know you’re not going to be handling a particular file, you have a duty to your clients and to your colleagues to make sure somebody knows what you know. Little Clare must have been absent the day they covered that particular obligation in ethics class. When she got that job offer in Victoria, she just took off.”

“I thought she went to Vancouver.”

“Somewhere on the left coast, I don’t know. All I know is she skipped off and took a lot of essential information with her.” Her face clouded at the memory. “It still makes me furious. Clare wasn’t a novice. She knew someone would have to pick up the slack, go over ground she’d already covered. She also knew that, unless you had specialized knowledge, it would be tough sledding. Clare does corporate work. She also has a commerce degree with a specialty in forensic accounting –”