Part 8 (1/2)

”I hope it is,” I said.

He nodded. ”Me too,” he said. Then he leaned towards me. ”Mrs. Kilbourn, what were you looking for at Nationtv?”

”Answers,” I said.

”Leave that to us, Mrs. Kilbourn. Don't involve yourself in this.”

”I am involved. Haven't you read the papers or turned on your TV? I'm the number-one suspect.”

He raised his eyebrows. ”Do you believe everything you hear from the media?”

For the first time since Maureen Gault's murder, I felt a glimmer of hope.

”If you don't think I killed her, why aren't you telling the press?”

Unexpectedly, he smiled. ”First, because, at least to my knowledge, there has been no flat-out a.s.sertion that you're guilty. The press has been very careful to imply rather than state. And second, because, at the moment, there are certain advantages to having the focus on you.”

”Because the real killer might relax and make himself vulnerable?”

”Him or her self, Mrs. Kilbourn. And yes, that's what I'm hoping for. A lot of police work is just waiting around, you know. When I was a kid, I owned an old retriever a best squirrel dog on the reserve. He never seemed to do anything but lie in the sun. All the other dogs, soon as they spotted a squirrel, they'd start running around, yapping, going crazy till they got that squirrel into a tree. Nine times out of ten that was the end of it. The dogs would get tired and b.u.g.g.e.r off, and the squirrel would go on about his business. But that old retriever of mine would just sit and wait, and as soon as the squirrel thought it was a lovely day for a walk ... bingo!” He smiled. ”That old dog would have made a good cop.”

”So you're just waiting?”

He shook his head. ”No,” he said.

”Then what are you doing?”

”Checking and re-checking stories,” he said.

”To see if someone's lying?”

”No, just to see how everybody within earshot of the head table remembers the evening's events. People see things differently, Mrs. Kilbourn.”

”Depending on where they were sitting,” I said.

”Yeah, and depending on what happened to them in their lives before they walked into that room. What I'm trying to do right now is find out everything I can about the people who were sitting at the head table that night.”

”Know the truth about the teller and you'll know the truth about his tale,” I said.

Inspector Alex Kequahtooway's dark eyes widened with interest. ”Something an elder told you?” he asked.

”Something my grandmother told me,” I said.

His round face creased in a grin. ”She must have been an Ojibway.”

We both laughed.

”Finding the truth about the tellers and the tales is what I'm trying to do now,” he said.

”Are you getting anywhere?” I asked.

”At the moment, no. All I'm doing is mouse work.” He gestured towards the medicine wheel on the wall behind him. ”The other day you mentioned the Four Great Ways of Seeking Understanding. You know how Brother Mouse understands his world?”

”By sniffing things out with his nose, seeing what's up close, touching what he can with his whiskers.”

He smiled. ”Did your grandmother teach you that, Mrs. Kilbourn?”

”No,” I said, ”I learned that from my instructor in Indian Studies 232.”

”Then you know that when I've got my treasure trove of facts and information, I'll try to stop seeing like a mouse and start seeing like an eagle. The big picture, Mrs. Kilbourn. That's what I'm going for.”

He extended his hand to me. ”Thank you for coming, Mrs. Kilbourn.”

I took his hand. ”You're welcome,” I said. ”And, Inspector, I enjoyed the Beethoven.”

When I got home, Hilda was sitting at the kitchen table with the morning paper spread out in front of her and a pad and pencil beside her.

She gestured to the window when she saw me. ”The children are building a snow fort. They've been remarkably persistent. It's quite impressive.”

I looked into the back yard. Taylor and Jess were installing the jack-o'-lantern in a place of honour at the top of the snow fort. I watched as they packed snow around his base to secure him. Shrivelled but menacing, Jack surveyed the back yard. The fort and those within it were safe.

”Any word from Angus?” I asked Hilda.

”He came by with a group of friends. They admired my earrings, I admired theirs, and they left. He says he'll be home at the regular time for supper.”

”Good,” I said. I poured a cup of coffee and sat down opposite her. The paper was open to a story about Maureen Gault. ”Anything new?” I asked.

”There might be,” Hilda said. ”I decided to read through all the stories about Maureen and note the significant points.”

”Mouse work,” I said.

She looked puzzled. When I explained, she laughed. ”I like that,” she said. She picked up her notepad. ”Now, here's my pile of nuts and berries: Maureen Gault was born on Valentine's Day, 1968, in Chaplin.”

”Kevin Tarpley was from there, too,” I said. ”And that's where Ian died. Funny, isn't it? For years, Chaplin was just a place I drove past on the highway, but it always gave me the creeps. It wasn't the town so much as the sodium sulphate plant on the outskirts. There were always these huge mounds of salt on the ground there. They made me think of the Valley of Ashes in The Great Gatsby.”

Hilda raised her eyebrows. ”That's certainly an ominous a.s.sociation.”

I nodded. ”It's lucky we don't know what's ahead of us, isn't it?” I said.

”Very lucky,” Hilda said. She picked up her notepad again. ”Maureen's father was killed in a farming accident five months after she was born. Now this next is a quotation from an interview with Maureen's mother, s.h.i.+rley. 'When my husband died, I decided to devote my life to my girl. She had it all: tap, jazz, ballet, ringette. Little Mo always knew exactly what she wanted, and she knew how to get it from me. I don't know how things could have turned out so bad for her.' ”

”Poor woman,” I said. ”Maureen was her life. I remember s.h.i.+rley Gault from the time after the arrest. I think she was on the news every night, If there was a cabinet minister coming to town, she'd be at the airport, demanding justice. If there was a public meeting, she was at it, handing out leaflets, trying to get herself in front of the cameras.”

”She sounds unbalanced,” Hilda said.

”I thought so,” I said, ”but I was pretty unbalanced myself at the time, so I was no judge.”

Hilda looked at me sharply. ”Are you sure you want to pursue this, Joanne?”

”In for a penny, in for a pound, as my grandmother used to say.”