The Brutal Heart

CHAPTER 7

The next morning when the dogs and I went for our run, fog hung over the lake and a light rain was falling. Puddles of water were spreading on the grass, so we stayed on the concrete. Willie and Pantera revelled in mud, but I didn’t, and after months of power struggles and the intervention of a dog trainer, I had established myself as the alpha or, at least, as the one who held the leashes. Running in what my grandmother called “the Scottish mist” was always a joy to me. The familiar world was suddenly a place of Brigadoon mystery, and while heather on the hill was in short supply in Wascana Park so were bridges of doom. In my view it was a saw-off. And that day as the dogs and I made our way along the rain-slicked walkway beside the Broad Street Bridge, there was another reward. On the sandy shoreline on the south side of the bridge, a pair of American avocets was foraging in the shallow water with their elegant upturned bills.

The southern part of our province was a favourite breeding place of the avocet, but this pair was the first I’d seen this year. I wasn’t a knowledgeable birder, but I’d always been attracted to quirky pieces of information and avocets provided a romantic one: after mating, the pair crossed their slender bills and walked away together. I was still smiling at that image when the dogs and I started home.

Zack was in the kitchen finishing his coffee and dressed for work in one of his beautiful silk suits. “You look like the cover of GQ,” I said.

He smiled. “Thank you. You look like you could use a kiss and a shower.”

“Maybe, not in that order,” I said. “I’m sweaty.”

“I thought I detected a powerful pheromonal waft.” Zack held out his arms. “Come on, you can’t let your body send out signals like that and not let me at least cop a feel.”

I kissed him. “Now you’re the one sending out signals,” I said.

Zack looked at his watch. “Damn, and I haven’t got time to follow through. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour. I picked up a new case last night.”

“One of your bad boys?”

“No, a case that one of my bad boys was supposed to be handling. He’s in-house counsel to Peyben, the company that’s developing that new housing tract out by the airport. Peyben is being sued by a clairvoyant who claims she had a vision that the land would be developed and she passed along her vision to one of their executives.”

“And now the clairvoyant wants some of the lolly,” I said. “How come the Peyben lawyer’s handing this off to you?”

Zack raised an eyebrow. “Because he’s obsessed with the Cristal Avilia case, and he’s afraid that if he met with the psychic, she’d be able to read his mind.”

“Oh what tangled webs we weave,” I said.

Zack chortled. “If only you knew. I’d better get a move on, but I’ll see you at UpSlideDown for lunch.”

“You’re coming? That’s a nice surprise.”

“Maddy phoned last night and asked me herself.”

“Get there early,” I said. “Ginny’s filming a campaign spot. So there’ll be cameras and lights and people.”

“Everything’s coming up roses for Ginny?”

“The polls say yes.”

“I heard a bit of her interview on Quinlan Live. It seemed to be going well.”

“You didn’t hear the whole thing,” I said. “At one point a young woman called in. She was reading from a script.”

“A script?”

“It happens,” I said. “Talk-show producers get to know the voices of campaign workers, so sometimes they keep them off air. That’s when organizers turn to novices to spread the good word.”

“Using a script.”

“Novices get off message.”

“And this caller got off message.”

“I don’t think she did,” I said. “I think she read exactly what she’d been given to read. The script was literate, and it started innocently enough. The girl commended Ginny for her good work in the past; then she said Ginny’s contribution was particularly praiseworthy because while she was working for her country, her ex-husband was living off the money he took from prostitutes in Regina.”

Zack’s eyes widened. “Did the caller mention any names?”

“No. Do you think she was referring to Cristal Avilia?”

“These days it seems that all roads lead to Cristal, but I guess she wasn’t the only sex-trade worker servicing rich clients.”

Zack’s words were blunt, matter of fact, and his lack of emotion infuriated me. I slammed down my mug, spilling coffee on the table. “Why is that, Zack? Do guys just finish at work for the day, close down their computers, buy an hour of love, then go home to the wife and kids?”

Zack picked up a napkin and mopped my coffee. “It’s more complicated than that,” he said. “Can we talk about it later?”

“Sure,” I said. “And by then, I may have some insights for you. Later on this morning I’m meeting a woman who ran an escort service.”

“Why ever would you do that?” Zack was very still and his voice was almost a whisper. I’d seen him use that technique in court. It had a way of making witnesses feel small, foolish, and exposed. It didn’t work on me.

“Jill thinks the Cristal Avilia case is going to be big news,” I said.

“And she wants you to get involved.”

“We thought it would be useful if I acquired a little knowledge.”

“You’re making a mistake, Joanne.”

“Well, I won’t be the first one to do that, will I?”

Zack looked at me hard. “No, you won’t. So, do you want to take another shot at me, or can I go to work?”

I picked up a towel and started wiping off the sweat. “Go to work,” I said. “There’s not a lot to hold you here.”

He winced. “Jesus, Jo. Let’s not start the day this way. Can we just let this go – at least for a while?”

For a beat we just looked at each other. The shadows under his eyes were pronounced. I knew he wasn’t sleeping well. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll start again. I saw something neat on my run this morning. The American avocets are back.”

“The ones who do that crossed-bills thing? Where were they?”

“Down on that little beach by the Broad Street Bridge.”

“Want to go over tonight and have a look?”

“If the rain keeps up, it might be tough to get down there in the chair.”

“I’ll manage,” Zack said.

“You always do,” I said. I picked up our dishes and took them to the sink.

“So who’s the woman you’re seeing?”

“Her name is Vera Wang.”

“Well, you’re in good hands.”

“You know her?”

He nodded.

“Did you use her services, too?”

“Nope,” Zack said. “She used mine. Vera kept what we, in our archaic legal way, call a common bawdy house. Section 210 of the Criminal Code has a problem with her line of work. I’m a lawyer, Joanne. From time to time, people who run afoul of the law come to me.” With that, he started to wheel out of the room. “I’m not always the bad guy. Cut me a little slack.”

Ginny’s breakfast was being held at the Pile O’ Bones Club; the name was a romantic allusion to our city’s past, but the club itself was a utilitarian concrete structure that, ugly as it was, had been constructed within Palliser riding, and that was all that mattered. When I got into my Volvo to drive to the event, I tuned in Jack Quinlan’s show. There’d been new polling the night before. Nationwide, the election was still too close to call and of Saskatchewan’s fourteen federal ridings, nine were considered in play. Palliser was one of them. The topic for the morning was predictable: what do you think the outcome will be on Monday? I recognized the voice of the first caller. Malcolm had been a staunch supporter of my old party for years. He was knowledgeable and wildly partisan. Our former premier used to say that if our party had nominated Judas Iscariot and the opposition had nominated Jesus Christ, Malcolm would have voted for Judas. That morning, Malcolm was ruminating on Ginny’s changing fortunes. He was surprisingly even-handed, saying he felt the personal attacks on her had been boorish and unfair, but expressing surprise that the polls had turned so dramatically because of the outcome of the custody suit. Malcolm’s view was that, whatever she did in her personal life, Ginny had a political record that thoughtful voters should peruse, and when they saw what Ginny was politically, they would reject her for the right reasons. At first, it seemed the next caller’s comments grew out of Malcolm’s. She argued with enviably perfect diction that while the Honourable Ms. Monaghan’s personal life should not be an issue, the excesses of Jason Brodnitz – “a well-known denizen of the city’s red light district” – should concern decent citizens of every political stripe. Quinlan warned against slandering and took the next call. By that time, I was at the Pile O’ Bones Club.

The parking lot was filled, and so were the parking spaces on the streets adjacent to the club. I had to drive three blocks to find a parking space. Ginny’s campaign was clearly moving in the right direction. In my lifetime, I had probably attended a hundred breakfast rallies. They were easy to plan because the menu was as invariable as the program. The faithful chowed down on watery scrambled eggs, greasy bacon, and cool, limp toast while a local MLA with a reputation as a wit warmed them up. Then a colleague of the candidate introduced her, the candidate took centre stage and wowed the crowd, and after party supporters had handed over their money and promised to get out to vote on E-Day, they were free to leave.

When I walked into the Pile O’ Bones Club, Keith Harris was right inside the door. I checked out the room. “Another good sign,” I said. “You had to open the concertina wall – that means you’ve got at least two hundred and fifty people.”

Keith smiled. “Three hundred and twenty, and counting,” he said. “And the most important one just arrived.”

“Smooth talker,” I said.

“I have to do something to make up for the food,” Keith said. He pointed to the steam table. “You know the drill,” he said. “Fill a plate, and listen to your arteries scream for mercy.” He smiled. “I guess a septuple bypass would indicate that my arteries have already spoken. ”

Even after a night’s sleep and a fresh shave, Keith’s colour was not good. I reached into my bag, pulled out the container of yogurt, and handed it to him. “Eat this,” I said. “I’ve had a run, and I’ve got a long day ahead. I can use a manly breakfast.”

I filled a plate and we found the table at the back where the professionals always sat. Milo O’Brien was already there, stabbing at his BlackBerry and eating his Crispy Crunch. He gave us an absent wave, but he made no attempt to join us.

Our timing couldn’t have been worse. I had just forked my first bite of sausage when the warm-up man, the local MLA, ran onstage. His blond toupee looked thatched, like a roof in a fairy tale, and his stories were cringe-inducingly blue. After a joke about the number of political bones that had been present in Ginny’s body, Keith made a moue of disgust. “How did this idiot get elected?”

“The Liberals and the NDP split the vote, and he slithered up the middle.”

“How did he get nominated?”

“In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.”

“The bar for political candidacy does seem to have been lowered,” Keith said equitably. He looked at me. “Is that why you stopped being involved with your party?”

“Partly. And partly I just got tired of sounding old – harkening back to the days when political discourse was civil and people had principles. The new gotcha politics makes me sick.”

“Is that why you were so open to Ginny?”

I nodded. “I thought there was an excessive licking of chops when the details of her private life became public.”

“But it’s more than just principle,” Keith said. “You like Ginny, don’t you?”

“I do.”

His smile was sly. “So are you going to vote for her?”

“Now that would be a huge step. As one of Jack Quinlan’s callers said today, a vote should be decided on where a candidate stands on the issues, not on personality.”

“Ginny’s not that far from you on most issues, and you know the argument there: better to elect someone who can be in the government tent arguing for you than to vote for someone who’ll be a voice in the wilderness for the next four years.”

“So you think you’re going to form government again?”

“Probably with a minority, but yes, I think we’ll pull it off. We’ve got our political base. If we can get them to the polls, then convince enough Canadians we’re not as crazy as our political base, we’ve got it nailed.” Keith glanced up at the stage. “Looks like Buddy Hackett’s finished. Can I get you some more coffee before the main event?”

“My turn to buy,” I said. I stood and picked up our cups. Then I heard a familiar voice coming through the PA system. I looked at the stage; then back at Keith. “What’s Sean Barton doing up there?”

“He appears to be introducing Ginny,” Keith said.

“When did he join your campaign?”

“Last night. Another sign that we’re going to win. When smart young lawyers sign on this close to E-Day, you suspect the breaks are coming your way.” Keith’s gaze was appraising. “I take it this will be news to your husband.”

“News, but not a surprise. Sean hasn’t been happy at Falconer Shreve lately, so he may be looking in another direction.”

“If he’s looking in our direction, I’d appreciate knowing if he comes with baggage.”

“No, I don’t think he does. He’s smart and he’s charming. Zack just thinks he doesn’t have the right feeling for the law. He says Sean is less concerned about people than he is about moving the pieces around so he can win.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “If Sean wants a career in Ottawa, that won’t be a liability.”

I looked across the room at Ginny, surrounded by well-wishers pushing one another to get closer. I thought of the actress Elizabeth Taylor’s wry observation: “There’s no deodorant like success.” Seemingly, the peccadilloes that had so alarmed Ginny’s political base just days ago had become insignificant. “Keith, if Ginny wins Palliser again, what’s next for her?”

“She goes after the leadership.”

“Character will no longer be an issue?”

“It can be handled,” Keith said. “People’s memories are short, and Ginny does have custody of her daughters.”

“And you’d support her?”

Keith nodded. “It’s time for a woman prime minister – not just somebody dropped into the shark tank to finish out a term but a person who can really lead the country. Ginny has a vision of what Canada can be that’s genuinely compelling. All this talk about her private life has obscured it, but she’s smart and she’s thoughtful. Most importantly, with those girls by her side, she’d be a dynamite candidate.”

“So if Ginny wins Monday night, Tuesday morning you start sharpening the knives and go after the current tenant of 24 Sussex Drive.”

Keith nodded. “That’s the way it works,” he said.

I picked up our empty cups. “I forgot to get our refill. I’ll buy you fresh and better at Mieka’s.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Keith said, and we sat back and listened to Sean do a masterful job of being grateful, humble, and excited about introducing Ginny, and Ginny do an equally masterful job of being grateful, humble, and excited about the challenge of winning the election and serving Palliser again. Neither Keith nor I responded to the financial appeal. Keith was already a maxed-out donor, and, as a woman who’d spent her adult life working for the party that opposed Keith’s, I would have had a Dr. Strangelove moment if I’d attempted to contribute a single loonie to the Conservative Party.

The room cleared out quickly, but Keith wanted to talk to Ginny, so I stayed behind at our table. I was reading through Ginny’s new campaign brochure, when I spotted Francesca Pope at the bottom of the stairs to the stage. Ginny and Sean were still at the podium, chatting with supporters, and Francesca was staring at Ginny with an intensity that I found unsettling.

I walked across the room to Milo. “Get Ginny out of here,” I said.

“What’s going on?”

“Probably nothing,” I said. “But I’m spooked. That woman over there has a history of mental problems. Her name is Francesca Pope, and something about Ginny sets her off. During the custody suit, she saw Ginny in the lobby of the courthouse and she started yelling at her.”

Milo licked a dab of chocolate off his finger. “Thanks for the heads-up,” he said. “I guess even Trojan horses have their uses.” He moved past Francesca quickly, took the stairs two at a time, whispered something in Ginny’s ear, and steered her towards the exit at the back of the stage. As always these days, Sean was close behind. Francesca scanned the room, using her hand as a visor. Finally, her eyes rested on me and she came over.

“I remember you,” she said. “You’re my lawyer’s wife.”

“Joanne Shreve,” I said.

She adjusted the straps of her backpack. “It’s hard to do the right thing when everybody thinks you’re crazy,” she said. Then without elaborating, she covered her hair with a plastic grocery bag and walked through the doors into the rain.

Ed Mariani had arranged for me to have my meeting with Vera Wang in the garden of the home he shared with his partner, Barry. Ed met me at the door, took my umbrella, and hustled me inside. “God, has there ever been a spring this wet? It may be time for the prudent to build an ark. Anyway, dishing among the daffodils is definitely out. Too bad too, I was longing to peer out my kitchen window and watch you and Vera speak tête-à-tête in the gazebo.”

“You could hide behind that shoji screen in the living room.”

Ed patted his girth. “I’d crash through it like an elephant. I’m just going to have to trust you to share every delicious detail.”

“Ed, how do you think I should approach Vera? I don’t want her to feel that I’m using her.”

“But you are using her. She understands that. She’s using you too.”

“For what?”

Ed slipped my jacket onto a hanger. “Like all of us, Vera wants to be respected, and she wants to be valued. Her occupation has pretty much put her beyond the pale. She’s sixty-seven – not old, but certainly at an age where a person wants to set the record straight.”

“What is the record?”

Ed’s smile was enigmatic. “I’ll let her tell you.” He peered out his living-room window. “You won’t have to wait long. The lady is on her way.”

I gazed past him. “Is that her with the stunning umbrella?”

“It is, and I’m glad you’ll have a chance to watch her make her entrance,” Ed said. “Vera has learned the secret of the royal family: the more slowly you move, the more people pay attention.”

Indeed, there was something regal about the way in which Vera moved up the suburban street. Although the rain had stopped, the wind was shaking drops from the new leaves and Vera kept her umbrella raised against them. She was dressed, head to toe, in the softest grey, but her umbrella was flamboyant – huge red poppies in a sea of green.

When Ed opened the door, she shook the rain from the umbrella’s canopy and the poppies danced. Ed took her umbrella and looked at the handle admiringly. “Solid hickory,” he said. “Very nice.”

Vera’s smile was satisfied. “I always told my clients, you get what you pay for.”

“Oh, good,” Ed said. “We’re not going to waste time on pleasantries. Right down to business.”

“Time is money,” Vera said evenly.

When Ed introduced us, she held out her hand to me. She was wearing gloves of the softest kid, and she took charge of the interview immediately. “I know you have questions, Joanne, but Ed has promised us a cup of his excellent cappuccino, and I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“I’ve set you up in the breakfast nook, so you can look out at the daffodils while you chat,” Ed said. “Follow me.”

Vera was one of those rare beings who feels no compunction to make small talk in a social situation. As she gazed at the garden, I fixed my eyes on her. She was a small, softly contoured woman who’d made no attempt to compromise the natural process of aging. Her grey hair curled gently away from her face. Her skin was exquisite, but there were lines around her eyes and at the corners of her lips, and her chin and neck were no longer taut. She was clearly comfortable with her appearance, but her reputation was apparently another matter.

Ed presented our cappuccinos with a flourish. “Among his many talents, my Barry is a skilled barista,” Ed said. “He has taught me how to pour the milk in a pattern on the espresso. As you can see, I’m a beginner: all I can do are swirls and hearts. Barry, of course, can pour out the entire Last Supper.”

“That is impressive,” I said.

Vera laughed. “Can Barry pour out Mary Magdalene?”

“I’ll ask him,” Ed said. “Now if you ladies will excuse me.”

“Of course,” Vera said. “It’s time Joanne and I got started.”

From the moment she began, it was obvious this wasn’t the first time Vera had told her story, but she explained her success with a matter-of-fact narrative skill that was mesmerizing.

“Like most women, I came to prostitution from necessity. I was in an arranged marriage. He was abusive, and I had to get out. I had no money, and the only thing I had to sell was myself. My husband was a busy man, I had many hours on my own, and I used them profitably. When I had enough money, I left Vancouver and moved here to make a new start. My father was a merchant, and I understood business. I examined mainstream possibilities and I didn’t like what I saw: buying a corner store, working fifteen hour days, seven days a week, keeping kids from stealing candy, their older brothers from robbing me, and their parents from running up bills they would never pay. I would live over the store, and when I died no one would even know my last name. It did not appeal. Prostitution was a more congenial option. I bought a house, sought out girls, paid off the right people, and set up business. I ran a clean house – only a liar promises no disease, no drugs, no insanity, but I monitored my girls closely and I culled the ones who didn’t fit. I knew that men come to whores for something more than sex.”

“What do they come for?”

She picked up her spoon and swirled the milk on her cappuccino, blurring the hearts.

“Joanne, do you know how many men use the services of a prostitute in their lifetime?”

“I have no idea.”

“Neither do I,” Vera said. “But each of those men would have his own reasons.”

“Did you know Cristal Avilia?” I said.

Vera gave the foam on her spoon a catlike flick of the tongue. “I’d seen her, of course, but I knew her only by reputation. In our small circle, she was a legend.”

“Because she was so good?”

Vera’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you interested in Cristal, Joanne? Is it just that her life ended so dramatically?”

“Not just that,” I said. “A member of my family was involved with her.”

Vera nodded. “I understand. Well, she was good – superlative. I had a little mantra for my girls to repeat before a date: ‘Listen – really listen – to the man. Learn what it is he really wants – beyond the orgasm. Give him what he dreams of, and he’ll come back.’ From what I heard, Cristal lived that mantra.” Vera picked up her porcelain cup with her gloved hands. “She lasted fourteen years in our business – that’s phenomenal. Most girls don’t make it past two.”

“Did you ever see her with a man?”

Vera’s laugh was curiously girlish. “Of course. Being with a man was Cristal’s business, Joanne. I often saw her with men – at dinner, in a hotel lobby, getting into a taxi.”

“Any man in particular?”

“She had many repeat customers.”

“And you knew them.”

“Some of them.”

“But you’re not going to name them.”

“That’s right. I’m not.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

Vera raised an eyebrow. “A pimp? Yes, I’d heard rumours about a man in her life. He didn’t sound pleasant, but they seldom are.”

“Did you hear a name?”

“No, and this time I’m not being discreet. I truly never heard a name, but I did hear that their relationship was an ugly one.”

“Ugly enough that he might have killed her?”

“Unlikely,” Vera said. “Cristal was, after all, his little money-making machine, but I guess even a little money-making machine can drive her owner to murder.”

“My God. The world can be a terrible place.”

Vera’s look was pitying. “Are you just discovering that, Joanne?”

When I arrived at UpSlideDown, the newest recruit to the campaign greeted me. Sean’s crooked smile charmed me as it always did, and the sight of a forest of tiny bright umbrellas in the vestibule finished the job. UpSlideDown was a welcome, noisy reminder that life can be good.

“All’s well,” Sean said. “Ginny’s chatting up the parents and Mieka’s already signed the release to let your granddaughters appear in the spot. We have not had a single parent turn down our request to let their child appear in an ad with Ginny. I believe this campaign is starting to go very, very well.” He frowned. “You look a little down. Bad morning?”

“I’ve had better,” I said. “But this is nice.”

Sean gestured towards a vastly pregnant woman with two sons under the age of five. The boys spied the umbrella stand, chose their weapons, and started duelling. We watched as the mum removed the umbrellas from her sons’ hands and bent towards them. “Enough,” she said. “Got it, Sawyer?” Sawyer gave her an angelic smile. “Got it, Finn?” Finn’s chuckle was deep, charming, and utterly noncommittal.

“I’d better get her to sign the waiver fast,” Sean said. “Keith’s around here somewhere. Since I told him you were coming, he’s been eyeing the door.”

“I’ll find him,” I said. “Good luck with the pretty mum.”

Sean approached her and held out the release form. “This is just to let you know that your boys might be photographed as part of a political spot for Ginny Monaghan. If you’re uncomfortable with the situation, UpSlideDown will give you a voucher for three hours free playtime another day.”

The young woman patted her belly. “It’s raining. I’m pregnant. I seem to have given birth to Satan’s spawn. I don’t care who they’re photographed with. I just want to sit down, sip chamomile tea, and listen to Nora Jones on my iPod.”

“Sign here,” Sean said. “It’s nice to meet a fellow Nora Jones fan.”

The woman scrawled her name and headed off after her boys, who had already scaled the walls of a play-castle and interrupted the tea party of two young girls with tiaras and attitude.

As soon as she spotted me, Ginny came over. “I seem to have lost Mieka,” she said. “And I need to freshen up. Is there a bathroom I can use?”

“There is,” I said. “But the adult female bathroom is a single. You’ll wait forever. The children’s bathrooms, on the other hand, offer endless possibilities if you’re prepared to squat and wash up at a teeny-tiny sink.”

Ginny shrugged. “Any port in a storm. Hey, your old pal is over there waiting for you.”

Keith was seated at a little red table with my granddaughters. Madeleine was wearing jeans and a shirt that read, “Girl Power.” Lena was still wearing her new ladybug raincoat and rainhat. I knew without asking that she had simply refused to take them off, and Mieka was waiting her out. I also knew that Mieka would wait a long time to see that raincoat come off. Lena was a determined child. Keith and the girls were building something elaborate and mysterious out of Lego, and they were so content that I stopped for a moment just to watch them.

The girls were five and three and their personalities were beginning to declare themselves. They were their own people, but there were recognizable family traits: Madeleine, fair-haired and hazel-eyed, was, like Mieka and me, earthbound and pragmatic; Lena, dark-eyed and mercurial, was like my late husband, Ian. As I watched Keith, I wondered whether he was seeing traits in the girls that connected them to the Harris family.

He looked up and smiled. “There’s a fourth chair at this table,” he said.

“We’re building a corral for the horses,” Lena said.

“Where are the horses?” I said.

“We have to build them,” Madeleine said.

“Fair enough,” I said. “If you tell me the pieces you need, I’ll hand them to you, but Lego is not my forte.”

“What’s a forte?” Lena asked.

“Something you’re good at,” Madeleine said. “Like your forte is running and climbing and doing the monkey bars.”

Lena nodded happily. “I am good at the monkey bars.”

Mieka appeared with a tray of juice boxes. “Madeleine is too modest to point out that her forte is reading. Keith, your older grandniece is already reading chapter books.”

“I’m impressed,” Keith said. “With both the monkey bars and the chapter books. They’re great kids, Mieka.”

“I have lots of help,” my daughter said. “Of course, I also have Zack to deal with. Mum, do you know what he sent the girls this morning?”

“Let me tell,” Lena said, her dark eyes growing large. “A bunch of candy.”

“The idea is it’s like a bouquet of flowers,” Madeleine said. “Except instead of flowers it’s all lollipops. It’s really pretty. Of course, Lena wanted to eat it.”

I put my arm around Madeleine’s shoulder. “And you want to keep it the way it is forever.”

Madeleine put a last piece of Lego on her corral. “Not forever,” she said. “Just for a long time.”

Lena was facing the door. Suddenly, she leapt up with such force she almost knocked the little table flying. “Here’s Zack.”

Madeleine was off too.

Keith watched as the girls reached out to my husband. “I wish I’d thought to bring a candy bouquet,” he said, and his tone was wistful.

Mieka grimaced. “Well, I don’t. One overindulgent male in their lives is enough.”

“Still, it would be nice to get the kind of greeting Zack’s getting.”

“The girls spend a lot of time with Zack and Mum. Why don’t you come over to the house tomorrow night for supper? Get to know the kids better.”

“I’d like that,” Keith said.

At that moment, Zack joined us, and as always when he came into a group, the dynamic changed. He was the least egotistical of men, but his charm was potent.

“It’s the candy man,” I said.

“Don’t be dismissive. It took me an hour on the Internet to chase that thing down.”

“My hero.” I said. I went over and kissed him.

He drew me close. “Thanks for the kiss,” he said. “Everything okay now?”

“It will be,” I said.

“Good,” he said. He extended his hand to Keith. “Zack Shreve,” he said. “And, of course, I recognize you. It’s good to finally meet you.”

Mieka turned to me. “Mum, I could use a little help with crowd control while Ginny’s people set up their cameras. Why don’t we let these two get acquainted?”

It was pleasant to be in a room bright with the colours of a crayon box, listening to the sounds of kids laughing while the rain pounded down outside. Mieka served sandwiches and juice and cookies; the shoot went well. Even Milo O’Brien seemed to relax. When I walked by he had a piece of broccoli in his hand.

“Is that what I think it is?” I said.

He laughed. “You know, it’s not half bad.”

The questions from the young mothers and a few fathers were centred naturally enough on family, and Ginny talked consistently about family values in a way that made that hackneyed shibboleth of the right sound like something other than a code for exclusion of all but the few. I had never really listened to her before, and she was impressive. I was beginning to see Keith’s point. Whenever I glanced their way, Keith and Zack seemed to be enjoying each other’s company. As Sean said, all was well.

I was picking up empty sandwich plates when my husband beckoned me over. “Keith, I know this is rude, but there’s something I have to talk to Jo about.”

“Not a problem,” Keith said. “I should go and check in with Ginny anyway. I enjoyed our talk.”

“So did I. Come over to the house for a drink before you leave town. We can continue our discussion about the Jays’ amazing ability to self-destruct.”

Keith smiled. “A topic with infinite possibilities. I’ll be there.”

I sat in the chair Keith had vacated. “So what’s up?”

Zack leaned close and lowered his voice. “Blake just called. He wanted to let me know that, against my advice, he’s going to Cristal’s funeral.”

I closed my eyes. “I am so tired of Cristal Avilia.”

“Well, she’s incinerated and in an urn at the funeral home, so I can’t see her posing a threat for much longer.”

“Now you’re angry,” I said.

“You bet I am. Cristal’s dead. You and I are alive – seemingly to fight another day. But this is neither the time nor the place for us to duke it out. I just wanted you to know that I’m going to the funeral with Blake.”

“Why? Blake’s an adult. He doesn’t need a chaperone. If he wants to be there, he should be there.”

“Jo, we should probably try to keep our voices down. People are staring at us. I wouldn’t give a shit except this is Mieka’s party and I don’t want to wreck it. And, to answer your question, Blake should not be at the funeral. There’ll be cops there. They still haven’t found Cristal’s killer, and they entertain the not wholly unfounded belief that murderers go to the funerals of their victims.”

“Blake was in love with Cristal,” I said. “He wouldn’t have killed her.”

“People kill people they love every day of the year, Jo. Blake doesn’t have an alibi. The police haven’t nosed around, because they have no reason to connect him with Cristal, but if he shows up, they’ll start wondering why. And Blake is in no shape to deal with a cop who decides to come down hard on him.”

“So you’re going to go to the funeral with him.”

“Right. If I’m there, the focus will shift. Debbie knows I had a connection to Cristal, and she knows I didn’t kill her. Blake could just be there as my friend.”

“That’s not good enough,” I said.

“You’re probably right, but I’m out of options. I’m also a little tired, so unless you pull a Margot and throw tacks under my wheelchair, I’m out of here.”

I stood up. “I’ll come with you,” I said.

“Suit yourself,” Zack said. “The funeral is at Speers at two.”

“Half an hour.”

“Plenty of time. I guarantee parking won’t be a problem. I don’t imagine many of Cristal’s intimates will want to run the gauntlet.”

“I guess funerals aren’t part of their fantasies,” I said.

Zack looked at me hard. Then he turned his wheelchair and began his careful passage through the kids and the blocks, past the pink plastic castle and the fort with the drawbridge till he came to the door that opened out into the real world.