Part 5 (1/2)

As I talked, he made notes in a scribbler that looked like the kind my kids used in grade school. When I'd finished, he read his notes over unhurriedly. I stared at the medicine wheel, and tried to remember the four great ways to understanding: wisdom, illumination, innocence, and something else.

Finally, satisfied that the first part of the interrogation was in order, Inspector Alex Kequahtooway turned the pad to a fresh page and looked up at me.

”Just a few more questions, Mrs. Kilbourn. You seem tired.”

”I am tired,” I said.

”Then let's get started. When was the last time you saw your scarf that night?”

”I left it with my coat.”

”In the downstairs cloakroom. There's a coat check upstairs near the ballroom. Why didn't you use it?”

”None of us did. I came in with five other people, and we all left our coats in the cloakroom on the main floor. You have to pay to check your coat upstairs.”

”Too bad you didn't pay,” he said, and there was an edge to his voice. ”n.o.body can touch the coats upstairs without dealing with the people who work there, whereas your coat ...”

”... was unguarded right out there where anyone could get at it.”

”Right,” he sighed. ”Now the next question presents even more of a problem.” He looked at his notes. ”Before you came in, I had a few moments to talk with Constable Andrechuk. He was the first officer on the scene after you discovered Maureen Gault's body. Constable Andrechuk tells me he pointed to the deceased and asked you, and I quote: 'Do you know of anybody who'd want her dead?' Is that an accurate quote, Mrs. Kilbourn?”

”Yes,” I said, ”it is.”

Inspector Kequahtooway made a check mark in the margin beside the question. ”Now, listen carefully, Mrs. Kilbourn. Constable Andrechuk says that, when he asked you that question, you answered, 'Me. I wanted her dead.' Is that accurate?”

”Yes,” I said, ”it is.”

”Why did you want her dead, Mrs. Kilbourn?”

I was silent. Images of Little Mo flashed through my mind.

Inspector Kequahtooway leaned towards me. His obsidian eyes seemed to take everything in. ”Did you hate her because Kevin Tarpley had killed your husband?”

”No,” I said, ”I was afraid of her.”

”You were afraid of her all these years?”

”No,” I said. ”I wasn't afraid of her after Ian died. When you see the files on his murder, you'll know that there wasn't anything ... personal ... about his murder.”

”That's an odd word to use, Mrs. Kilbourn.”

”It's the right word. Ian was killed because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was Fate, like being hit by a bolt of lightning on the golf course.”

Alex Kequahtooway's voice was so low I had to strain to hear it. ”Something changed,” he said.

”For the six years after the trial I never saw Maureen Gault. Then the day of Kevin Tarpley's memorial service, November 3, she came to my office at the university and she came to my house.”

”Did she threaten you?”

”Not verbally. But, Inspector Kequahtooway, something had come loose in her. She seemed to feel she had to pursue me. I don't know why. Last night at the hotel, she told me that she could make things happen, and I'd better remember her.”

”Some people who were sitting near the head table say they heard you call her crazy.”

”She was crazy,” I said, ”and dangerous.”

”And you're glad she's dead.”

I looked at him. He was older than his brother, and harder. I remember Perry telling me his brother was the first Indian to make inspector on the Regina police force. I guess he'd had to be tough, but there was something about him that invited trust. I took a deep breath.

”Yes,” I said. ”I'm glad she's dead. But Inspector Kequahtooway, I didn't kill her.”

He made a final note in his scribbler, and capped his pen. ”That's good news,” he said. He stood and motioned towards me. ”You can go now, Mrs. Kilbourn. I guess I don't have to tell you that we'll expect you to keep us aware of any travel plans.”

When I stood up, my legs were so heavy I knew I'd be lucky to make it across the room. ”Travel won't be a problem,” I said. ”Goodnight, Inspector.”

It was a little after 2:00 a.m. when I got home. I checked on Angus and Taylor, showered, put on my most comforting flannelette nightie, and climbed into bed. I was bone-tired, but I couldn't sleep. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw the red wound in Maureen Gault's white face: Cherries in the Snow.

Finally, I gave up and went down to the kitchen. Hilda was sitting at the table, drinking tea and reading a book t.i.tled Varieties of Visual Experience.

”Boning up on Abstract Expressionism?” I asked, and then, I began to sob.

Hilda leaped up and put her arms around me. ”Good G.o.d, Joanne, what's the matter? It's not one of the children ...?”

”No, it's not the children,” I said. ”It's me. Hilda, I'm in trouble ...”

I started to tell her about Maureen, but I guess I wasn't making much sense, because she stopped me.

”Let me get you some tea,” she said. ”Then you can start again. This time, tell me what happened in chronological order. Nothing calms the nerves more effectively than logic.”

Hilda poured half a mug of steaming tea, then she went into the dining room and came back with a bottle of Metaxa. She added a generous shot of brandy to the tea and handed the mug to me. ”Drink your tea,” she said, ”then we'll talk.”

An hour later, when I went to bed, I slept. It was a good thing I did, because the next morning when I picked up the paper, I knew it was going to be a long day. The paper was filled with stories about Maureen Gault's murder and, whatever their starting point, by the final paragraph they all had an arrow pointing at me.

I could feel the panic rising, and when the phone rang, I froze. ”Whoever you are, you'd better have good news,” I said as I picked up the receiver. I was in luck. It was my daughter, Mieka, sounding as exuberant as a woman should when she was on a holiday with her new husband.

”Mum, guess where I am.”

”Some place sunny and warm, I hope.”

”I'm sitting at a table in a courtyard at the Richelieu Hotel in New Orleans, and I just had grits for the first time in my life.”

”And you phoned to tell me,” I said.

”No, I phoned to tell you that Greg and I got the same room you and Daddy had when you stayed here on your honeymoon.”

A flash of memory. Lying in each other's arms, watching the overhead fan stir the soupy Louisiana air, listening to the sounds of the French Quarter drift through the open doors to our balcony.

”I hope that room's as magical for you as it was for us.”

”It is,” she said softly.