The Wandering Soul Murders (3 page)

Apparently, though, she’d already thought of what she wanted to say to me. As the solid homes of College Avenue gave way to the strip malls and fast-food restaurants of Park Street, Christy turned to me.

“What’s the date of Mieka’s wedding?” she asked.

“It’s the Saturday of Labour Day weekend.”

“Maybe Peter and I can make it a double wedding,” Christy said, and I felt a chill.

From the back seat Angus’s voice broke with adolescent exasperation. “Pete’s just a kid. He can’t get married.”

Christy shrugged and smiled her knowing smile, but Taylor had heard a word that interested her. “Samantha at my school says that when her sister got married, their poodle wore a wedding suit and carried the rings down the aisle on a little pillow.”

Angus snorted. “Great idea, T. Can you imagine our dogs in a church?”

“They could have dresses,” Taylor said resolutely, “dresses for a wedding.”

Angus was mollifying. “Well, yeah, maybe if they had dresses, it would be okay.” Then he exploded in laughter again.

Between the dogs in their bridesmaids’ dresses and Christy’s suggestion about a double wedding, there didn’t seem to be much left to say. As we pulled onto the Trans-Canada east of the city, we settled into a silence that if it wasn’t companionable was at least endurable.

It had been a wet spring. The fields were green with the new crop, and the sloughs were filled with water. On that gentle afternoon, the drive to the Qu’Appelle Valley was a pretty one, and as we travelled along the ribbon-flat highway, I was soothed into daydreaming. Just before Edenwold, the air outside the car was split with a high-pitched whooping.

Beside me, Christy was excited. “Oh, Jo, look over there in that field – those are tundra swans. You have to pull over to let the kids see.”

To the left was a slough, and it was white with birds. There must have been thousands of them. The air was alive with their mournful cries and the beating of their powerful wings.

I pulled over on the shoulder, and Christy and I and the kids ran over and doubled back along the fence.

Taylor was tagging along behind Christy. “Where are they going?” Taylor shouted, raising her voice so she could be heard above the racket.

“The Arctic Circle,” Christy shouted back, and she turned and took Taylor’s hand. “They spend the winter in Texas and they fly north for the summer. They’re a little off their migration path.”

Taylor stopped in her tracks. “If they’re lost, how will they find their way?”

In the brilliant May sunshine Christy looked young and defenceless. “Instinct,” she said, “and luck. If they’re smart and they’re lucky, they’ll make it.”

I liked her better in that moment than I had in weeks. As she stood by the fence and watched that prairie slough filled with swans, it seemed as if the mask had dropped and the woman who lived behind that complex repertory of roles Christy played had revealed herself. I had said to Mieka that all we could do was wait and hope for the best. Maybe there really was a best. I was reluctant to make the moment end.

“I guess we’d better go,” I said finally. “They’re expecting us for supper.”

As we passed Balgonie, I noticed that it was close to five o’clock, and I reached over and switched on the car radio for the news. Bernice Morin’s murder was the lead story. The announcer’s voice was young, nasal and relentlessly upbeat. “Regina police announced a possible break in the Bernice Morin case. A witness has come forward with the information that at seven-thirty on the night of the murder, he heard a cry in the alley behind Old City Hall. When he looked down the alley, he saw a jogger running south. The jogger is described as five feet seven, slender, wearing grey sweatpants and a hooded grey sweatshirt. Police ask that anyone having –”

Beside me, Christy reached over and savagely turned the radio off.

I was surprised that she wasn’t interested. “You met her,” I said. “Mieka said she was in the store Tuesday afternoon when you came in.”

I noticed a tightening in the muscles of Christy’s neck. She didn’t say anything.

“She was so young,” I said. “She had all her life ahead of her.”

“She was just a hooker,” Christy said coldly.

I was so angry I wanted to shake her, but she cut me off. She turned her back to me and stayed that way, looking out the window of the passenger seat, till we got to the Harrises. I could hear her breathing, tense and unhappy, but she didn’t say a word. As far as I was concerned, that was fine. An hour after she’d come back into our lives, I’d already had enough of Christy Sinclair.

By the time the highway started its slow descent into the Qu’Appelle Valley I’d decided that letting my son get the wind knocked out of him in the wrestling ring was one matter; standing by while he entered into a serious relationship with a cruel and angry young woman was another. As soon as I had a chance, I was going to talk to Peter about Christy.

Once I’d made the decision I felt better; when I saw the rolling hills of the Qu’Appelle I felt better yet. I had been to the valley a thousand times, but it had never lost its power to quicken my pulse. We turned off the highway and drove up the narrow winding roads until we passed a sign that said we were entering Standing Buffalo Indian Reserve. Below, Echo Lake glittered, and on the other side of the water, the hills rose green with spring.

It wasn’t long till we drove out of reserve land, and the ubiquitous signs of cottage country thrust themselves up along the road: “Heart’s Eze,” “The Pines,” “Dunrovin.” Through the trees I could see the bright outlines of the cottages hugging the hills overlooking the lake. At the crest of the highest hill we came to a discreet cedar sign that said, “Eden.”

“This is it,” I said to the kids. “We are about to enter the Garden of Eden. And you guys always say I never take you anywhere.”

Hedges of caragana protected what was behind from public view. We drove through the gate and along a road narrowed by bushes and wildflowers. At the turn, we came to a clearing; below was the summer cottage of the family of the late Alisdair Harris.

Except it wasn’t a cottage; it was a country home, a handsome old dowager of a house of gleaming white clapboard with verandas on both storeys and gingerbread trim. At the side of the house, a pool, its water an improbable turquoise, shimmered in the late afternoon sun. White wrought-iron chairs and tables, already set for dinner, ringed the manicured green of the lawn around the pool.

The air smelled of fresh-cut grass, and in the distance I could hear the song of the valley’s birds. It really was Eden, or as close to Eden as I expected to come on this side of the grave.

“No snakes in this paradise,” I said.

“Good,” said Taylor. “I’m scared of snakes.”

“I’m not,” said Angus. “Anyway, the only kind of snakes around here are garter snakes, and they never hurt anybody. You’ve got nothing to worry about, T.”

But Angus was wrong, and I was wrong, too. In that serene and perfect world, there was a serpent waiting. Before the night was over, it would glide silently across our lives, leaving behind its dark gifts of death and evil, changing us all forever.

CHAPTER

3

When he saw that there was a tennis court behind the house, Angus rolled down his window.

“Look out, Toto, we’re not in Kansas any more,” he said.

Beside him, Taylor laughed appreciatively. I would have bet my last dollar she’d never heard of the Wizard of Oz, but it didn’t matter. Angus was her brother now, and she was determined to be his best audience.

Greg and Mieka had driven out to the lake earlier in the day, and as soon as we pulled up, Mieka came running out of the house to greet us. She hugged me, scooped up Taylor for a kiss, and gave her brother’s shoulders a squeeze. Then she turned to Christy, who was standing apart from us in the driveway.

“You’re sharing a room with me,” she said. “Just let me grab some of my family’s twenty thousand bags and I’ll show you where you can freshen up.”

With Mieka’s welcome, some of the misery seemed to leave Christy’s face, and I could feel my body relax. When Mieka was around, life had a way of working out, and I smiled gratefully at her.

She grinned. “Dinner’s at six-thirty, you guys – my mother-in-law-to-be is a stickler for punctuality.”

We carried our bags into the house, and Christy disappeared upstairs with Mieka. Taylor and I were sharing a room, and Angus was in what Mieka had described as the male wing of the house.

“My new family believes in propriety,” Mieka had said, deadpan. “Men on one side, women on the other; don’t embarrass me with any midnight creeping.”

I closed the door and looked gratefully around our room. It had a spectacular view of the hills and the lake. Everything in it was the palest shade of pink.

“Look,” I said to Taylor, “your favourite colour.”

“Do you think Mieka picked the pink room for me?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Now, why don’t you hit the bathroom and get some of the dust off, and we’ll get ready for supper. I could smell the barbecue when we pulled up.”

I had just finished braiding Taylor’s hair when there was a knock at the bedroom door. I went, expecting Angus, shocked into courtesy by the splendour of his surroundings. But when I opened the door it wasn’t my son who was standing there, it was Christy Sinclair.

She didn’t wait to be asked in. She walked past me and sat down on the bed. She was still wearing the overalls and striped shirt she’d had on in the car, but she’d splashed water on her face, and her hair curled damply at the temples. Christy never wore makeup. Her good looks were the kind that didn’t need help, and that afternoon, as she smoothed her hair nervously and tried a tentative smile, I was puzzled again at her mystery.

Anyone who walked into that room would have been struck by the sum of Christy Sinclair’s blessings. Physically, she had great charm; moreover, she was bright and educated and privileged. But somewhere, buried in her psyche, was a dark kink that distorted her perceptions and subverted her life.

I went over and sat beside her on the bed. My presence seemed to encourage her. She moved closer.

“I’m sorry about that business in the car, Jo,” she said. “I know that kind of language is totally unacceptable to you.”

I was horrified. “Christy, this isn’t a problem of diction. It wasn’t your language that upset me. It was the way you dismissed Bernice Morin. Whatever Bernice’s life was like, her death was a terrible thing.”

What I said seemed a statement of the obvious, but my words hit Christy like a blow. The smile faded, and when she spoke her voice trembled.

“Understand one thing, Joanne. Your death would be a terrible thing. Mieka’s death would be a terrible thing. But when girls like Bernice die, it’s just biological destiny. They’re born with a gene that makes them self-destruct. They’re all the same – antisocial, impulsive. They take risks that people like you and Mieka wouldn’t. They never learn. They just keep taking risks, and sooner or later their luck runs out.”

I felt cold. “Luck had nothing to do with it, Christy. Bernice Morin was murdered. She didn’t self-destruct.”

Christy’s voice was weary. “It was her fault, Jo. Believe me, I know. I’ve done a lot of reading on genetic profiles. These girls are born with a gene for self-destruction. Nobody can change what’s going to happen to them. Whatever girls like Bernice do, the disease is in them. It’s just a matter of time.”

“I refuse to believe that,” I said.

“That doesn’t make it any less true,” she said quietly. Then she did a surprising thing. She reached down and pulled off the wide silver band she always wore around her wrist and held it out to me.

“You always said you admired this, Jo. I’d like you to have it.”

I didn’t want the bracelet. At that moment, I didn’t want anything that would connect me to Christy Sinclair. But as I looked at the smooth circle of silver on the palm of her hand, I didn’t know how to refuse. I took it. When I slipped it on my wrist, it was still warm from her body.

The bracelet was engraved with Celtic lettering, and I read the words aloud: “Wandering Soul Pray For Me.”

Christy smiled. “I will,” she said. She touched the silver band with her forefinger. “I love this bracelet, Jo, but I love you more. I didn’t want you to go on thinking I was a bad person.”

I moved closer to her. “Oh, Christy, I never thought you were bad. I’ve never felt as if I knew you at all. If you could just –”

I never finished the sentence. There was a knock at the door. Taylor came running out of the bathroom to answer it, and the moment was lost. Christy stood up and moved toward the doorway; she looked at the man who was standing there, then turned to me.

“Thank you for taking the bracelet, Jo. People aren’t always what they seem, you know.”

I went over to say goodbye, but she was gone.

“That’s the worst introduction I’ve ever had,” said the man in the doorway, “so I’ll try to make up for it.” He was holding a drink and he offered it to me. “Vodka and tonic with a twist. Your daughter said that’s what you like on a hot day.”

I took a long swallow from the drink. “God bless Mieka,” I said. “It’s turning into a vodka kind of afternoon.”

He laughed. “I’m having one of those afternoons myself. I’ll keep you company. Incidentally, I’m Greg’s uncle, Keith Harris.”

“I’ve seen you on television a thousand times,” I said. “You’re much nicer looking in person.”

“So are you,” he said. “But I have a more politically correct compliment for you. I read a review copy of your book on Andy Boychuk. It’s the most intelligent biography I’ve read in ten years. You’re going to be on the best-seller list.”

“Kind words and a cold drink. Keith, I really am glad to meet you at last. And the kids were so worried we wouldn’t get along.”

Keith raised his eyebrows. “I tried to reassure Greg,” he said, “but I think he and Mieka were convinced that the moment you and I met, we’d lock horns.”

The talk of locked horns caught Taylor’s attention. She was too young for metaphor. She moved between us and looked up expectantly.

“This is my daughter Taylor,” I said. “Taylor, this is Mr. Harris. He’s Greg’s uncle.”

Keith dropped to his knees to be eye level with Taylor. I saw her look with interest at his tanned and balding head. So did Keith.

“No horns,” he said. “Although your mother might have been surprised to discover that, too. When people talk about locking horns with somebody they just mean they don’t get along very well.”

“Why wouldn’t you and Jo get along?” Taylor asked.

“Because our politics are different,” he said. “I work for one party, and your mother works for another party. Not much of a reason to fight, when you come right down to it.”

But Taylor was not interested in politics. “We saw a field of swans,” she said. “When we were in the car, we saw a field of swans. They were resting on their way home to the Arctic Circle. That’s north,” she added helpfully.

“Sounds better than my afternoon,” he said. “I spent the last hour on the phone talking to … Well, never mind who I was talking to. It’s boring. I can’t offer you any swans, but if you and your mother come outside, I can show you the hill where once a long time ago a man saw a million buffalo coming down to the water.”

Taylor looked up at him, dark eyes keen with interest. “A million buffalo,” she said. “I wish I’d seen that.”

He smiled at her. “I wish I had, too,” he said, and with the easy camaraderie of people who’ve known each other for years, the three of us started toward the lake.

Angus caught up with us when we were halfway down the hill. He was running and his face shone with sweat and excitement. “There are frogs down there. Little ones –”

“No,” I said.

“No to what?”

“No, you can’t ask Mieka for a jar. No, you can’t capture them and sell them. No, you can’t take any back to the city and give them to your friends.”

“I’m not a kid, Mum,” he said. “Come on, Taylor. Let’s go down to the lake and look at frogs. But don’t get your hopes up. We already heard the answer about taking one home. See you, Mr. Harris,” he said.

We watched them run toward the lake. “You’ve met my son?” I asked.

Keith nodded. “When I was getting ice, Angus was in the kitchen looking for …” He trailed off innocently.

“For a jar,” I said.

“I’ve been in politics all my life, Joanne. I’m not walking into that one. Now, come on, and I’ll show you where Peter Hourie saw that amazing sight. If you’d like, that is.”

“I’d like,” I said.

We walked down to the shore and looked up at the hill. “It was right over there,” he said. “Hourie had just started building up Fort Qu’Appelle, and he was camped out here with some of his men. They looked over there and the buffalo were coming down to the water. Hourie and his group stayed here twenty-four hours, and the buffalo never stopped coming. They really did estimate there were a million animals in that herd. It must have sounded like the end of the world.”

For the next half-hour we sat on the grass, talking about everything and nothing: the buffalo hunts, politics, friendships. Taylor and Angus, absorbed in the mysteries of the shore, were wading contentedly in the water that lapped the stony beach. The smell of barbecue and the sounds of music drifted down from the house. Finally, sun-warmed and at peace, I lay on the grass and closed my eyes.

“Happy?” Keith asked.

“God’s in Her Heaven. All’s right with the world,” I murmured.

I’d almost drifted off to sleep when I heard Mieka’s voice. “Here we were, worried sick that you two were going to kill each other and all you’ve done is put one another to sleep.”

I sat up, rubbed my eyes and looked at Keith.

He shrugged. “Vodka and sunshine. A lethal combination.”

Mieka shook her head. “Time to straighten up, Keith. Your dad’s car just pulled in. Lorraine says he’ll want to see you as soon as he gets settled.”

“I’ll be right up,” Keith said, and he sounded weary and sad.

“Troubles?” I asked.

“My father,” Keith said. “Blaine had a cerebral hemorrhage at Easter. It’s hard to be with him now. For seventy-five years he was one man, and now he’s another. The worst thing is he knows. He knows everything.”

Keith stood up and held his hand out to me. “Do you want to come up to the house and meet Blaine? He’s always enjoyed the company of intelligent women.”

“I’d be honoured,” I said. Then we called the kids and walked up the hill.

Keith’s father was sitting in a wheelchair by the pool. Even the ravages of his illness hadn’t eroded Blaine Harris’s dignity. He was wearing golf clothes, expensive and well-cut, and he was beautifully groomed. But there were surprising notes: his white hair was so long it had been combed into a ponytail, and he was wearing not golf shoes but moccasins, soft and intricately beaded. He looked like a man on the verge of embracing another lifestyle.

When he saw his son, Blaine Harris raised his left hand in greeting, and garbled sounds escaped his throat. Keith went to him and kissed the top of his head.

His tone with his father was warm and matter of fact. “Blaine, this is Mieka’s mother, Joanne. She teaches political science at the university and she’s written a pretty fair book about Andy Boychuk.”

Blaine made muffled noises that even I recognized as disapproval.

Keith looked at me. “My father’s politics are somewhat to the right of mine.” He turned back to his father. “Blaine, it’s a wonderful book. We can start reading it tonight if you like.”

Blaine made a swooping gesture toward me with his good arm. “Pancakes,” he said.

Beside me, Taylor, recognizing another practitioner of the non sequitur, laughed appreciatively.

Keith patted his father’s hand. “Yes, Dad, Joanne’s book deals with campaigns, mostly the provincial ones.”

The old man made a growling sound in the back of his throat.

Keith shook his head. “Yeah, Dad, I know it’s awful when all the words are in there and they just won’t come out. But what the hell, eh? You’ve got me. Now come on, it’s time to eat.”

It was a fine spring meal: barbecued lamb, the first tender shoots of asparagus, carrots, new potatoes, strawberry shortcake.

We sat outside at the tables around the pool I’d noticed earlier. I was surprised to see that Mieka had asked Christy to sit with Greg and her. Christy had changed clothes; she was wearing a white dress that looked cool and elegant. When Lorraine Harris joined them, I noticed she was wearing white, too. Midway through the meal, Greg and Mieka left to greet some latecomers, and as Lorraine and Christy bent toward one another, deep in conversation, I thought they looked like a scene from
The Great Gatsby:
handsome women in dazzling white, insulated by their money against the sordid and the wretched.

The kids and I sat with Keith and his father. Eating was a torturous process for Blaine Harris. He had the use of his left arm, but as he lifted his fork from his plate to his mouth, the signals sometimes got scrambled. His hand would stop, and Blaine would look at the fork hanging in midair as if it were an apparition. It was agony to watch, but Keith eased the situation. He was quick and unobtrusive when his father needed help, but he didn’t hover, and he kept the conversation light.