The Last Good Day (8 page)

“Accounting analysis,” I said.

“With enough precision to make the results stick in a courtroom. Forensic accountants offer a lot of litigation support, quantifying economic damages – the economic loss involved in a breach of contract or the loss of future earnings. I guess when Clare was playing second fiddle to the litigators she got the hots for the law – I used to nod off in corporate law, but some lawyers love it, and of course, with corporate clients, the money’s good. Anyway, to give Clare her due, she was a whiz.”

“But she left her clients and her colleagues in a mess,” I said.

“Oh boy, did she ever. There was one particular case – I still get the shivers when I think about it. It was so complicated and we were working against the clock. None of us had pulled that many all-nighters since law school.”

“Why didn’t you just get in touch with her? Surely she had an obligation to her clients to tell you what she knew.”

“Lily tried. Clare clammed up, said there were numbers she simply didn’t remember and didn’t feel comfortable estimating. Which was bullshit. We didn’t need her to give us the numbers; we needed her to give us the information she’d used to arrive at the numbers.”

“And she refused?”

“Apparently. And if she ever shows that sweet little heart-shaped face around here again, I will personally punch out her lights.” Delia struck a match and touched the end of her cigarette. “Do you know I’d quit this for ten whole days before Clare left? But as soon as I saw that mountain of work she’d left behind I bummed a smoke from one of our clerks, and I was back to square one.”

“I understand Clare left on Remembrance Day,” I said.

Delia exhaled slowly. “You’d have to ask Lily, but considering all the memories little Clare left behind, Remembrance Day would have a certain resonance, wouldn’t it?”

CHAPTER

5

When I hit fifty, I vowed to keep physical and mental inflexibility at bay through the practice of yoga. Given my lackadaisical approach, it seemed unlikely that I would ever reach the highest happiness of nirvana, but there was one yoga posture I was faithful to. When my body or my children told me it was time to chill out, I would close the door, dim the lights, roll out my mat, and assume the shava-asana or corpse pose: head centred, body and palms on the floor, mind focused on my breathing. Shava-asana had never failed me, but that night even the corpse position couldn’t deliver me from the torment of monkey thoughts.

Nothing about Clare Mackey’s sudden relocation to Vancouver rang true, and there was more. Clare wasn’t the only one who had been missing in action on that icy Remembrance Day. Alex Kequahtooway had been a no-show too. November 11 was Taylor’s birthday, and we’d had big plans: a trip to the Science Centre with nine of her closest friends, then back to our house for cake, ice cream, and presents. We’d arranged to leave our house at two in the afternoon. When Alex hadn’t arrived by ten past, I called his office, his home, and his cell. There was no answer. By two-thirty, the kids were bouncing off the walls, and I pressed Angus into service to drive the group Alex was going to take. The rest of the afternoon had been a nightmare – trying to keep the mood light while I watched the door of the Science Centre and waited for my cell to ring. Neither Alex nor the phone call of explanation ever came.

When – finally – I managed to reach Alex the next day, he was distant, and his apology was hollow. We quarrelled – or rather I quarrelled, and he listened. Clearly, his mind was elsewhere. Two weeks later I discovered what had captured his attention. There was another woman, and I found out about her existence through the oldest of B-movie clichés. Alex stopped by the house, and the perfume I smelled on his jacket was not my brand. When I asked him about the scent, he didn’t bother to lie – in fact, he embraced my accusation that he had been with someone else. Seemingly grateful that I had lifted a burden from his shoulders, he said goodbye. It was the evening of November 30. Earlier that day, he had advised Anne Millar that sometimes in life it was best just to walk away. Apparently he had been so impressed with his counsel that he’d decided to follow it himself.

It had been eight months since Alex severed our relationship, but remembering the breakup still made my face burn and my skin crawl. That morning I was relieved when my bedroom began to fill with pre-dawn birdsong and the knowledge that it was time to get up. Riding out to the middle of the lake to scatter a man’s ashes wasn’t at the top of my list of cottage pleasures, but anything was better than lying in the dark, lashing myself with memory. I swung my legs out of bed, and as my feet hit the floor I came as close to an epiphany as a woman can before she’s had her first cup of coffee. I didn’t have to lie in the dark, passively accepting every jolt and bombshell the fates sent my way. On my seventh birthday, my grandmother had given me an autograph book. She had handed along her own wisdom on the first page. “Don’t be a doormat all your life,” she had written. “Learn to give and to take and you’ll be happy.” Almost fifty years later, I knew it was time to listen to Nana.

I took my laptop into the kitchen, made coffee, sat down at the kitchen table, and sent a note to Anne Millar, giving her a précis of my conversation with Delia Wainberg and telling her that alarm bells were going off for me, too. I asked if she had the names of anyone Clare Mackey had been close to; then, proving that epiphanies beget epiphanies, I asked where Clare had gone to law school. If she practised in Saskatchewan, chances were that she’d gone to the university in Saskatoon. Clever students often keep in touch with their mentors, and I had friends on the law faculty there. It was a long shot, but there was a decided shortage of sure things.

After I’d sent the message to Anne, I glanced at the phone. Alex had told me to call if anything came up. The past twenty-four hours had brought plenty of revelations, but if I was going to confront him with questions about his relationship with Lily Falconer and his refusal to become involved in Clare Mackey’s disappearance, I needed more information. I looked at my watch: it was four-thirty. I let Willie out briefly with a promise of more to come later, showered, dressed, checked on Taylor, whispered to Leah that I’d be back in an hour, then feeling less like a doormat than I had in a long time, I walked down to the dock.

The others were there already, waiting. They could have been mistaken for the most carefree of vacationers: the sun was just rising over the horizon, bringing enough breeze to give the waves a chop. Zack Shreve’s Chris-Craft was beside the dock and he was already in the cockpit behind the steering wheel. Lily and Blake Falconer were sitting aft – as far away from one another as it was possible to be. The Wainbergs were standing at the end of the dock, Delia with her inevitable cigarette, and Noah behind her, kneading her shoulders with his big, gentle hands.

When he saw me, Zack waved and pointed to the seat next to his. Relieved I didn’t have to sit next to Lily, I took my place. Delia and Noah came aboard, sliding into the space between Lily and Blake.

Zack did a shoulder check. “Looks like we’re all here.”

“Where’s Chris?” Delia said. The question was blackly humorous, and everyone smiled.

“Exactly where he’s supposed to be,” Zack said, “in a box in the storage area.” Then he gunned the motor and backed the boat smoothly away from the dock into the open water. No one spoke as we headed for the lake’s centre. When we’d reached the middle, Zack cut the motor. Except for the screech of the gulls and the slap of the waves against the launch’s hull, the world was silent. I cast my eyes around the shoreline, getting my bearings. Until that moment, the cottages on the far shore had been dabs on a pointillist’s canvas, strokes in a vista created for our pleasure. Now they leaped into dimensional life with boathouses, rafts, floats, and docks of their own. When I looked back at Lawyers’ Bay, the handsome summer homes seemed to have no more substance than a stage designer’s balsa-wood mock-up of a set, too fragile by far to support the weight of Chris Altieri’s tragic death.

Zack interrupted my musings by tapping me on the arm and gesturing towards the storage area under the bow. “Why don’t you do the honours?” he asked.

I leaned forward, opened the latch, and pulled out a cardboard box. Zack took it from me and without ceremony threw a handful of ashes into the water, then passed the box back to Blake. The sequence was so devoid of emotion that it seemed brutal, but when I looked over at Zack, his eyes were moist. In turn, each of the partners and their spouses threw ashes into the water. Lily was the last, and as she took the open box a breeze came up and blew some of the ashes against her. Her reaction was swift: she hurled the cardboard box into the lake, then scooped water and began scrubbing furiously at the ashes on her shirt. I remembered a doctor I knew advising against scattering ceremonies, explaining that human ashes are so dense they stick to skin and embed themselves under nails.

Zack chortled. “Chris seems to be finding it hard to leave you, Lily,” he said. I was no fan of Lily’s, but I didn’t believe in kicking someone when they were down, and at that moment, Lily Falconer was definitely down. She looked ill: her skin had a greenish tinge, and her eyes were as blank as those of the woman in the wood carving at the base of the gazebo.

Her husband leaned forward and put his mouth next to Zack’s ear. “Shut up and get us out of here,” he said.

Zack gave him a mock salute and gunned the motor. The surge of power lifted the boat out of the water and within seconds we were kicking up spray, pounding towards the shore that lay across from Lawyers’ Bay. The rafts and water-ski ramps seemed to jump at us, but Zack didn’t change course.

I grabbed his arm. “Are you trying to kill us all?”

His lustrous green eyes danced with malice. “Would that be such a loss?” he asked.

I tightened my grip. “For me, yes, it would be,” I said.

He gave me a small smile. “In that case …”

He turned the wheel sharply and the landscape changed – the shore that had loomed so ominously vanished, replaced by open water. We were safe. For the next fifteen minutes we sped around the circumference of the lake. When finally we came to Lawyers’ Bay, Zack’s fury seemed to have spent itself. He cut the engine and the launch drifted in. We climbed out and waited as Zack slid onto the lift that moved him from the launch to the dock.

After the boat was safely moored, Blake ran a hand through his scrub-brush hair. “So what’s the preferred activity after you scatter a friend’s ashes?”

Zack shrugged. “Linking hands and singing ‘Kumbaya’?”

“How about getting back to work?” Lily said. “The firm still has bills to pay.” Her colour had come back and she seemed in command of herself. “I’m going into the city. Chris has files that need attention. We don’t have anybody in family law with enough experience. We need to find someone fast.”

Delia frowned. “Do you think we have to hire someone this soon?”

“Chris’s clients will think so,” Lily said dryly. “And we’ve already had letters of inquiry and resumés from lawyers who are anxious to join the Falconer Shreve team.”

“Scavengers circling the fresh carcass,” Zack said. “Clearly Falconer Shreve material.”

Blake shook his head. “Well, now that we’ve established the criteria –”

Delia cut him off angrily. “Those aren’t our criteria. We’re better than that.”

Zack’s smile was almost pitying. “With all due respect, Delia, that was then and this is now.”

“We can be good again,” Delia said. “We only have to find someone with that lust for justice we used to have.”

“We don’t want any young hotshots who think they have to right every wrong,” Blake said wearily. “We just need someone to replace Chris.”

“Chris is irreplaceable,” Delia said.

Her husband took her hand. “No one’s irreplaceable,” Noah said softly. “Let’s go back to the house. You had a bad night. You could use a little sleep.”

Blake was thoughtful as he watched the Wainbergs walk towards their cottage. “Maybe with Chris gone, they’ll have a chance,” he said.

“Maybe we’ll all have a chance,” Lily said. She reached out and touched her husband’s cheek. It was a small gesture, but the effect was electric. He turned and looked in her eyes.

“I’ll come into town with you,” he said. “An office can be a lonely place on Sunday afternoon.”

Since the day I’d met Blake and Lily, I’d wondered what kept them together; I wasn’t wondering any more. Clearly, Lily’s involvement with Alex hadn’t diminished the marital passion of the Falconers. The sexual charge that flowed between them as they stood together on the dock could have powered the
CN
Tower.

Not a creature was stirring when I got back to our cottage, but when I checked on Taylor, she rolled over and mumbled about breakfast. Peace would be short-lived. I smoothed her sheet and went back to my bedroom to check my e-mail. Anne Millar hadn’t lied about being an early riser. She’d already answered my note, and what she said was promising. Clare had graduated from the University of Saskatchewan College of Law. Anne remembered her mentioning two professors who had been particularly helpful. Clare hadn’t named them, but she had said that both professors were women. That narrowed the field. It also gave me an in.

My friend Holly Knott taught family law at the University of Saskatchewan. She was smart and she was a feminist, exactly the kind of professor to whom a bright young female student might gravitate. I typed in Holly’s address and wrote a note explaining that I was spending the summer at a friend’s cottage on Lawyers’ Bay, that Clare Mackey’s name had come up, and I wondered if Holly remembered her. Just as I was finishing off, Taylor drifted in to my bedroom, draped her arms around my neck, and stared at the screen. “Who’s Clare Mackey?” she asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” I said.

It was Sunday – pancake day – and when we went into the kitchen Leah and Angus, well aware of family tradition, were there in T-shirts and matching polar-bear boxer shorts mixing batter.

I poured myself coffee. “Gold stars all around,” I said.

“Two for me,” Angus said. “I took Willie for his walk.”

Leah wiped her brow with the back of a floury hand. “One star for you,” she corrected. “You were here all of thirty seconds before Jo and Taylor showed up. So far all you’ve done is grunt ‘Make way for a man who needs his engines stoked.’ ”

As I leaned across her to turn on the griddle, I patted Leah’s shoulder. “Thanks for not dumping the batter over his head.”

“It would have meant starting again from scratch,” Leah said. She narrowed her eyes. “Why don’t you sit down and let the hungry man serve you some pancakes? You look like you could use a little sustenance. In fact, you look like you need a holiday from your holiday.”

After we’d eaten, I checked my e-mail. I’d sent my note to Holly Knott’s university address so I was surprised to see her name in my inbox. As it turned out, she was at work. She was off to Crete the next day, so she was spending Sunday in her office finishing an article. She suggested that I give her a call to talk about Clare. The tone of her note was brisk except for the last line. “It’ll be good to hear your voice,” she wrote. “It’s been too long.”

Something about the words “it’s been too long” tugged at me. It had been too long since I’d seen Holly. It had also been too long since I’d talked to someone with whom I could let down my defences. My daughter Mieka and her family lived in Saskatoon. A visit with them might prove to be just the holiday from my holiday I needed.

I called Mieka and Holly. Both were enthusiastic about a visit. Holly said she’d see me at three o’clock that afternoon at the university, and Mieka had already planned our dinner menu by the time I hung up.

Taylor was sitting cross-legged on her bed knitting when I walked in. “Hey, are you up for an adventure?” I asked.