The Last Good Day

CHAPTER
2

From the moment I met her, I had been a fan of Angus’s girlfriend, Leah Drache. She was smart, funny, and original – a young woman with a blond bob and shiny brown eyes who charted her own course, but embraced anyone who chose to travel with her. The night of the drowning she was invaluable. The paramedics had convinced the police to let Angus and me go back to our cottage to towel off and get into dry clothes before they questioned us. Leah didn’t hover, but she knew what we needed, and she offered it: hot tea with plenty of sugar, the softest towels, the thickest sweatshirts and socks. She seated everyone in the kitchen, the room farthest away from the room in which Taylor, innocent of the night’s events, dreamed her summer dreams.

The RCMP confirmed my fear that the driver of the MGB was Chris Altieri, but beyond revealing his identity, they were tight-lipped. The officers who took our statements were smart enough to simply let us talk. They were professionals who recognized human limits, and they knew my son and I were on the edge. They also knew where to find us when the need for tough and close questioning arose.

After they left, Angus stood up, wrapped himself more tightly in his towel, and said he was leaving for his room over the boathouse. Leah was a woman who valued her space, and that summer she had opted for a room of her own in the cottage, but she loved my son and her tenderness as she reached for him brought a catch to my throat. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” she said. “I’ll come with you.” I went to my solitary bed envying them.

The physical exertion of the doomed recovery efforts had taken its toll, and I slept deeply. When I awoke, light was pooling on my bedroom floor and the scent of roses hung in the air. For a sliver of time, I was blissful; then with the suddenness of a cloud blocking the sun, Chris Altieri’s face flashed into my consciousness. It took an act of will to plant my feet on the floor and take the first step that would begin the new day.

When I came into the kitchen, Leah was at the sink, rinsing dishes. She was wearing khaki shorts and a sleeveless white cotton blouse that showed off her tan. There was something achingly lovely about the way in which she performed this most commonplace of tasks, and I was grateful to her for offering me an anchor to moor me to the workaday world.

She poured us both juice. “Rose Lavallee picked Taylor up about ten minutes ago. She thought the girls shouldn’t have to see police all over the place, so she’s taking them to Standing Buffalo. She’s bringing them back at three-thirty.” Leah handed me my glass. “Her sister’s going to teach them how to knit.”

“Our neighbours seem to take care of everything,” I said.

Leah’s brow furrowed with concern. “I’m sorry, Jo. I should have listened to Rose. She said I should wake you up to see if it was okay for Taylor to go, but I figured that, after last night, you’d want to sleep.”

“You were right,” I said, relenting. “And it’ll be handy having a knitter around the house. This family goes through a lot of scarves and mitts.” I sipped my juice. “How’s Angus?”

“He seems okay,” she said. “I’m glad we’ve got the grand opening of Coffee Row today – keep him distracted.”

“Your elderly gents are not going to lack conversational topics,” I said.

Leah’s smile was thin. “Half the town is probably out there already, sitting on the picnic benches, trading grisly details.”

Coffee Row was Leah’s answer to a quandary that had developed the week she and Angus started managing the Point Store. Stan Gardiner still lived over the business, and whenever the bell tinkled, announcing that a customer had come through the front door, Stan came down to visit. His continuing presence created a problem in both diplomacy and logistics.

The number of items cottagers believed essential to their existence had grown exponentially since the 1940s, when Stan’s father had opened his store, but the square-footage inside the building hadn’t increased. Despite Stan’s best efforts, stock teetered on shelves and spilled onto the ubiquitous and universally despised display racks. Stock and fixtures weren’t the only problems. A pitched battle had developed between the old men who had been meeting in front of the pop cooler at the Point Store since they were pups, and the sleek young matrons who presided over the huge summer homes that crowded the lakeshore. In a phrase, the issue was squatters’ rights: the old men were for them, the young matrons were against them.

The situation into which Leah and Angus walked was fraught, but Leah had been quick to propose a solution. Her idea was simple: set up a few picnic tables under the old cottonwood trees at the side of the store, offer Stan’s friends refreshments, and give the sleek matrons who were ready to pay top dollar for free-range chickens and anything labelled organic a clean, well-lit place in which to shop. Stan himself had selected the name for the new place. It would, he said, be called Coffee Row, because there was no point sticking a fancy name on something when you could call it what it was. The news that Coffee Row would be opening the Tuesday after the long weekend had been the number-one topic among the Point Store’s customers for days. Chris Altieri’s death meant there would be another story.

My son’s girlfriend had a rare ability to scope out a situation, and that morning she was quick to take my measure. “I’m assuming you’d rather not talk about last night,” she said.

“Anything but,” I said. “Is everything under control for the grand opening?”

Leah pursed her lips. “Well, we’re getting there. But I could use a little help with the refreshments. Since it’s a special day, we’re serving sandwiches: bologna and egg salad. Speaking of which…” She went to the fridge and removed a large ceramic bowl heaped with hard-boiled eggs. “Time for me to get crackin’.”

We groaned in unison. “Nothing beats egg humour,” I said.

Leah set the bowl on the table between us, and we began.

I had just finished peeling the last egg when Angus came in. He lolled against the doorway with his face screwed in an expression of distaste. “This place smells like farts. What are you guys doing?”

“Making lunch,” I said, holding the bowl out to him.

Angus grabbed an egg. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m starving.”

“Got time to give your old mother a hug?” I asked. Leah took the bowl, and I drew my son close, savouring the coolness of his body and the dampness of his hair. Last night had been a sharp reminder that the threads linking us to those we love are fragile.

“It’s okay, Mum,” Angus said, breaking away. “I’m still here.”

“Which is great,” Leah said, “except that you should have been at the store twenty minutes ago. Got to wipe down those picnic tables, babe. Got to put on the oilcloth.”

“Oilcloth?” I said.

“Mr. Gardiner had a bolt of it in his barn,” Leah said. “It’s brown-and-white checked – very retro.”

“In that case, I’ll love it,” I said. “I’m pretty retro myself.”

Leah picked up a pastry cutter and began moving it smartly through the bowl of hard-boiled eggs. “Come to the opening,” she said. “Free food, and all the rotten coffee you can drink. I wanted to get beans from Roca Jacks, but Mr. Gardiner says his friends have been drinking floor sweepings all their lives and the good stuff would just confuse them.”

It was a tempting invitation, but after Leah and Angus left, the energy seeped out of me. Heavy-limbed and gritty-eyed, I had the sense I was inhabiting a body that had been punished hard and long. As I sat at the kitchen table, staring at my coffee, my Bouvier, Willie, nudged me. His message was clear. We usually hit the beach by 5:45 at the latest. We were very, very late.

Willie followed me to the bedroom and stared as I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. When I reached for my runners, he began to circle, then he directed me to his leash and the door. Bouviers do not rate high on the dog-intelligence scale, but when it came to his run, Willie fired up all the circuits.

It was a hot morning with a haze that hinted at the possibility of rain. Willie barked at the birds chilling out in Harriet Hynd’s bird bath, then dragged me towards the horseshoe of beach that surrounded the bay. We were both committed to the routine, but it appeared Willie’s dedication was of a deeper order than mine. The last sight I wanted to see on that tranquil July morning was the spot where Chris Altieri had died, but neither death nor trauma deterred Willie. As he had since we arrived, my dog headed straight for the dock beside the boat ramp.

The vehicles used in the investigation had chewed up the beach badly, and the dock was muddy and lashed with weeds, but the lake itself was as flat and benign as a plate. My throat tightened. I jerked Willie’s leash. “Time to go,” I said.

Running helped. It was a haiku day, worthy of seventeen syllables of celebration, and my endorphins were pumping. Survival seemed possible until I spotted the gazebo. I froze. Willie cocked his head, awaiting the next development. I reached down and gave him a reassuring pat; then, obeying an impulse I didn’t understand, I led him along the beach towards the overhang of land where the gazebo had been built.

One of Noah Wainberg’s most eloquent pieces hung like a figure on a ship’s prow from the base of the structure. The carving was of a woman, seemingly a prisoner, her hands tied behind her back, her legs long and graceful, her breasts full, her face gentle but filled with an ancient and private sorrow. I had jogged past the carving for a week, but I had never seen it from this angle, and it was compelling. I reached out and touched the curve of her arm. Sun-heated, the wood was warm as flesh.

“Noah used my body as his model for the piece.” The voice was husky and low. It was Lily Falconer’s. I turned to face her. She’d been jogging, too. Her face was slick with sweat and her long hair had come loose. It fell against her shoulders – brush strokes of black against the glowing bronze of her skin. Her shorts and halter were the colour of pale jade, but they too were sweat-stained. “I need to talk to you,” she said.

I gestured towards the gazebo. “Maybe we should go in there, get out of the sun.”

She shook her head vehemently. “No. Let’s just go down to the beach.” She reached down and snapped off Willie’s leash. “Your dog wants to play in the water.”

Free at last, Willie bounded into the lake. Outmanoeuvred, I followed him.

When we came to the beach, Lily dropped to the sand and lay on her back, arms flung wide, palms up, legs sprawled, eyes closed. She was absolutely without self-consciousness. As I looked at her toned body and endless legs, I knew that if I had a body like hers, I wouldn’t be timid either.

She didn’t waste time on preamble. “I heard that you and your son tried to save Chris. We’re all grateful for that.”

“I wish the outcome had been different,” I said.

“If wishes were horses, then beggars could ride.” There was an edge in Lily’s voice, the pragmatist correcting the dreamer. “Chris is dead, Joanne. All we can do now is keep things from getting worse.”

A seagull swooped down and snagged something from the water. Willie, unaware that his mission was futile, paddled to the spot where the bird had been.

“I agree,” I said. “Has something happened?”

Lily pushed herself up on her elbows and met my gaze. “There’s a police officer named Alex Kequahtooway who wants to talk to you. From what I understand, you won’t need to be introduced.”

Her announcement had the force of a punch in the stomach. She was right. Inspector Alex Kequahtooway and I didn’t need an introduction. For three years, he had been my lover, and our parting had not been amicable.

“No,” I said. “The inspector and I are acquainted.”

“Then you know you can trust him.”

“I know I can trust him professionally,” I said.

A hint of a smile passed her lips. “Well, that’s all that matters here, isn’t it?”

“Lily, what is it exactly that you want me to do?”

“Tell the truth,” she said. “Answer the questions you’re asked but don’t introduce anything extraneous. Alex says -”

“Alex?” I said.

“We go way back.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “That sun’s hot.”

“Maybe we should move.”

In a movement as fluid as an athlete’s, Lily stood up. For a beat, she stared at the horizon. “No, we’re finished here. Just remember that none of us knows for sure just what happened last night. Don’t say anything that will muddy the waters.”

I scrambled to my feet. “I’m pretty good at keeping my focus,” I said.

Lily’s grey eyes bored into mine. “Good,” she said. “That’ll make it easier all around, won’t it?” She picked up the leash and whistled. Willie had not distinguished himself at obedience school, but he came to Lily immediately. She rubbed his head, snapped on the collar, and offered me the leash. “Chris’s death was an accident,” she said. “A terrible, terrible accident.” Her tone was without emotion – like that of a schoolgirl reciting by rote words that were beyond her comprehension.

When Willie and I got back to the cottage, Alex Kequahtooway’s silver Audi was in the driveway. I swore softly. I was depleted, without resources to examine a night that was still a fresh wound. There was something else, and it did not reflect well on me. The accident and its aftermath had battered me to the core, but apparently my vanity had survived. As I walked by the Audi, the rear-view mirror was in easy proximity, but I didn’t bend down to give myself a quick onceover. There was no point. I knew I looked like hell.

Alex was sitting in one of the rockers on the front porch. I hadn’t seen him since Christmas. He’d been involved in a difficult case then, and I’d chalked up his pallor and weight loss to overwork and stress. But the man in the rocker was suffering from something beyond too many late nights and too much caffeine. His eyes were closed and his head was resting against the wicker back of the rocker. His lethargy was a shock. Alex had always been driven, a dynamo who could grab a few hours’ sleep and function well. That morning, he looked as if something had hollowed him out. I called his name.

When he heard my voice, he opened his eyes and then raised his head slowly. “You’re okay?” he said.

“I will be,” I said.

“And Angus?”

“He’s remarkably resilient – as you well know.”

“Jo, how did you and the kids get mixed up with these people?”

“I explained that to the officers we talked to last night. We’re renting a cottage here for the summer.”

“And your landlord is Kevin Hynd, the hippie lawyer.”

“I see him more as Kevin Hynd, the loyal friend,” I said.

Alex flushed. The reference to loyalty had been a zinger. We’d broken up when Alex had become involved with another woman. Despite the hit, he soldiered on. “The storefront law business must be booming if Mr. Hynd was able to take off for parts unknown,” he said.

“They’re known to me,” I said. “Kevin is in Tibet, half a world away from Lawyers’ Bay. He’s not connected with this.”

“Maybe not,” Alex said. “But patterns are always provocative. It would be interesting to know why Mr. Hynd keeps walking away – first from a partnership in a highly lucrative law practice, now from his storefront office. Something seems to be making him uneasy.”

“This conversation is making me uneasy,” I said. “If you have questions about last night, I’ll answer them. Otherwise, I’m going inside to take a shower.”

“Okay, let’s get started.” Surprisingly, Alex made no movement to get his notebook and pen. “Something in your statement caught my eye. You said you were sleeping out here last night. Any special reason?”

“It was hot. It had been a full day, and my mind was racing. Monkey thoughts, my yoga instructor would say.”

“You’re still going to yoga?”

“Inner peace takes time.”

Alex smiled. “You seem to be moving in the right direction. You look good, Jo.”

The air between us was heavy with things unsaid, but I was in no mood for a trip down memory lane. “We were talking about the accident,” I said.

The warmth went out of Alex’s face. “All right, then why don’t you take another run at your story? Somehow, it just doesn’t feel right to me.”

My account of what had happened the night before was truthful and, except on one point, meticulous. As I had in my first interview, I hurried over my conversation with Chris Altieri. When Alex didn’t challenge me, I thought I was home free. I was wrong. He might not have been super-cop any more, but he hadn’t lost his touch. When I’d finished, he took out his notebook and uncapped his pen. “Interesting,” he said. “Now why don’t you tell me everything you know about Christopher Altieri.”

“There’s not much to tell,” I said. “Twenty-four hours ago Christopher Altieri was just a name to me – there must have been dozens of people at that party who knew him better than I did.”

“You’re probably right, but so far we’re coming up empty. The peripheral people – clients, friends, other cottagers – are anxious to help, but all they say is that he was a great guy. The people who should have known him best – the juniors in the law firm, the partners and their spouses – aren’t saying anything. That leaves you.”

“And I have nothing to say.”

The life had come back into Alex’s obsidian eyes. “I think you do,” he said. “I hear you had a one-on-one talk with Mr. Altieri last night.”

“You’d be wrong to attach any significance to that,” I said.

“Would I?” Alex made no attempt to hide his skepticism.

“It was a party. Lots of people were having one-on-one talks.”

“But you were the only person who had a one-on-one talk with the man who was about to die.”

“Alex, if you’re asking me whether Chris told me anything that explains the way his life ended, the answer is no. Nothing else is germane. Why don’t you just let him rest in peace?”

For an awkwardly long time, we held one another’s gaze. Alex looked away first. “I wish to God I could let this rest in peace, Jo, but I can’t.”

In all our time together, I had never seen Alex appear frightened, but in that moment I knew there was something he was afraid of. “Alex, what’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked to the window and turned his back to me. “When I was growing up, I was out on this lake every day, swimming, canoeing, fishing, playing hockey. I knew it the way I knew my own body. These people have changed everything – cleared away all the brush, gouged the hills, bulldozed paths, transplanted the grasses that were here to places where they thought some indigenous grass might make them look culturally sensitive. Everything’s for appearance. This land means nothing to them. It’s just another playground.”

Suddenly I was furious. “Alex, you sound like a retread from the sixties. You hated living at Standing Buffalo. You left as soon as you could. You went to police college in the city, you got a job, and as far as I could see you never looked back.”

“Maybe that was a mistake,” he said softly. “Maybe we all would have been better off just staying where we were.”

“Who is this we you’re talking about? You’ve never divided the world into them and us before.”

“Maybe that was a mistake too.”

“Were you and I a mistake?”

Pain knifed his face, but he didn’t offer any reassurance that our three years together had been worthwhile. “Just be careful, Jo. You may be new to Lawyers’ Bay, but I’m not. I know these people. If anything comes up, you’ve got my number.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got your number.” The bitterness in my voice surprised even me.

A cloud of dust almost obscured the silver Audi as it sped up the road, but I was still able to see that, instead of heading straight for the highway, the car turned into the Falconers’ driveway. I had a pretty good idea about the purpose of Alex’s visit. Lily Falconer had been born and raised on the Standing Buffalo reserve too. Alex’s epiphany that blood was thicker than water had clearly prompted him to remind Lily that, in this world, there were two camps, and the wise stayed with their own kind.

Showered, splashed with my Mother’s Day extravagance of Bulgari, and wearing a polo shirt, slacks, and sandals, I arrived at Coffee Row just as the festivities were about to begin. There was a buzz when I arrived. I had, after all, been part of the drama the night before, but my star was eclipsed the moment Leah poured the ceremonial first cup of java and presented it to Stan Gardiner. No doubt about it, this was a big event. The photographer from the town paper was there, so were the reeve of the municipality and the three candidates contesting the riding in the next provincial election. Clearly, the combination of free food, bad coffee, and a homegrown tragedy was impossible to resist. Stan had made certain that his guests were seated at the picnic tables intended for them. Latecomers had to make do with sitting on the grass. No one – not even the sleek young matrons – seemed to mind. The risk of a grass stain was a small price to pay for inside dope on the tragedy.

I’d planned to help serve the food, but a gaggle of pre-teen girls beat me to the punch. Cheerful as bees, they glided among the tables in their bright summer shorts and tops, offering sandwiches and cookies, teasing and getting teased. I was less merry. Even bologna and mustard on Wonder Bread couldn’t banish the images of the night before. There was something else. Out of deference to my involvement in the tragedy, a sprightly gent with a walker had offered me his place at the picnic table nearest Stan and his friends. Eavesdropping was unavoidable, and what I heard did not improve my mood. The situation was as sizzling as the day, and as they hosed one another down with their theories, Stan Gardiner and his friends were gleeful.

Stan himself opened the discussion. “A lot goes on down there at Lawyers’ Bay that they don’t want people to know about. Why else would they have put up them gates out front?”

The question may have been rhetorical, but that didn’t stop the man on Stan’s left. After a meditative pull on his Player’s Plain, he floated an answer. “Sex, drugs, and rock and roll – that’s what they’re into.” He sucked back another lungful, cackled himself into a coughing fit, wiped his mouth smartly on his hanky, and continued. “Key parties, wife swapping, cocaine – they do it all.”

The man across from him made a moue of disgust. “Jesus, Morris, if you don’t cut out cigarettes, they’re gonna kill you.”

“I’m eighty-five, George,” the smoker said reasonably. “Something’s going to kill me.”

“Better sooner than later,” George said. “When you spew garbage like that about a decent man you make me impatient. That Chris Altieri was a nice young fella. When he was at the lake, he used to drive into town to Mass every day – real religious.”

Morris was unconvinced. “You don’t go to church every goddamned day unless you’ve done something wrong. If that Altieri guy was such a choirboy, why was that Indian cop sniffin’ around here all winter?”

George was judicious. “A cop isn’t just a cop. He’s a man, too. And a man can have reasons to sniff around that don’t have anything to do with his job.”

“I get your meaning,” Morris said.

“So do I,” Stan Gardiner said. “And enough’s enough. There are women and children around. One thing I know, nobody sniffed around when Harriet Hynd was alive. She was a lady through and through, and Russell Hynd was a gentleman. No gates on the bay in their time.”

Coffee Row was still on full perk when I left. My cottage, empty of children and responsibilities, was mercifully stimulant free, and I welcomed the tranquillity. I was bone-tired, and I needed to be alone. As they always seemed to, the members of the Winners’ Circle had anticipated my needs. Taylor was one of the delights of my life, but that day I was relieved that Rose Lavallee had taken my daughter under her wing. Rose was so tiny that she could have bought her clothes in the pre-teen department at the Bay, but there was no doubting her common sense and reliability. I made myself a cup of Earl Grey, picked up Harriet’s copy of To the Lighthouse, and read until the mid-afternoon shadows danced across the ceiling. By the time the kitchen clock struck three, I had wearied of the grace with which Mrs. Ramsay presided over the seashells, bird skulls, and conflicting needs of her sons, daughters, and friends. I wanted a protagonist in my own image, a woman who was grateful none of her kids were around to watch her sulk over an old lover who apparently had wasted no time before he began sniffing around for a shiny new replacement after he’d dumped her.

Annoyed by my self-pity, I put Mrs. Ramsay back on the shelf and went to the kitchen to check out the possibilities for dinner. Rose was bringing Taylor home at three-thirty. Knowing my daughter, she’d be keen for a swim. If I got dinner started, she and I could take our time at the beach.

I might have been unlucky in love, but I was lucky in the kitchen. I’d been at the farmers’ market the day before and picked up a basket of tomatoes, some fresh basil, and a block of Taylor’s favourite white cheddar. I had a loaf of wild-rice bread in the freezer. Taylor loved smoked tomato soup. A mug of soup and a grilled cheese sandwich would be just the ticket after we came back from the lake.

I’d just finished chiffonading the basil when Rose and the girls came in. Isobel Wainberg was carrying a Zellers bag from which only the tips of her knitting needles protruded, but Taylor and Gracie were waving their handiwork like flags.

“Look at this,” Taylor said, shoving six inches of a hyacinth scarf towards me. “Isn’t this great? The very first thing I ever knitted. Rose’s sister, Betty, says I took to it like a duck to water.”

Gracie swung her creation from side to side. Her knitting, large-looped and irregular, flopped dispiritedly. She laughed. “Betty says I have many other talents.”

“You do,” Isobel said loyally. “You don’t always worry about doing everything perfectly. That’s a talent.”

“And,” Taylor added, “you can shoot hoops better than Angus. Now, who wants to eat?”

The girls raced to the kitchen, leaving Rose and me behind. “Can I get you something?” I asked. “Some tea or a cold drink?”

Rose looked critically at a loose button on her sundress. “I appreciate the thought,” she said, “but you don’t have to entertain me. I’m happy just to sit.”

“Me too,” I said. “And thanks to you, I got to sit all afternoon. Taylor obviously had a great time.”

Rose snapped off the errant button. “I’ll take care of you when I get home,” she said, popping the button in her pocket. She turned her attention to me. “That girl of yours surprised me today,” she said. “She’s a free spirit, and free spirits are hard to rein in – not that you want to. All the same, it makes it easier for everybody when they find something that they like to do. Your girl really concentrated on her knitting. She’s got an idea that she wants to knit a bedcover made of squares. She drew what she wanted so Betty could help her with the patterns. They were interesting – all different kinds of fish and shells. Your girl has a knack.”

“Taylor’s birth mother was an artist,” I said. “Her name was Sally Love. She was brilliant, and when we were growing up, she was my closest friend. After she died, I adopted Taylor.”

“So the gift was passed down. It isn’t always,” Rose said. She picked up the knitting that Gracie Falconer had abandoned and smiled at the loose, loopy stitches. “You can tell a lot about a person by the way she knits. I taught this one’s mother. From the first day, she never dropped a stitch. She never has.”

We were silent, listening to the laughter drift from the other room. “So you’ve known Lily for a long time.”

“All her life,” Rose said. “We’re from the same reserve.”

“And Alex Kequahtooway?”

Rose’s jaw tightened. “I know him,” she said.

“Were he and Lily friends when she was growing up?”

“On a reserve everybody knows everybody,” Rose said. Her mouth snapped shut like a coin purse. Clearly there’d be no more revelations coming my way today. “Remember that old saying, ‘Curiosity killed the cat’?” she said.

“My grandmother used to tell me that when I was sticking my nose in where it didn’t belong.”

“Well, I’m saying it to you now.” Rose picked up Gracie’s knitting and Isobel’s Zellers bag. “Thanks for the visit. It’s good to get to know new people.”