Part 11 (1/2)

”With a vengeance,” he said. ”There are nights when I'd give five years of my life for the sight of organ meat.”

The camomile tea was bracing and the cookies, mola.s.ses and whole wheat flour laced with wheat germ, were solid but tasty. Manda was as fascinated by babies and cats as Taylor was, so the table talk was lively.

After Taylor and I had said our goodbyes and started off down the sidewalk, I turned to look back at Craig and Manda. She was standing in front of him, enclosed in the circle of his arms. On the front door behind them was the wreath of dried apple slices and berries Manda had made to celebrate fertility. As they waved, I was grateful that the curse of the Seven Dwarfs seemed to have pa.s.sed them by.

Taylor and I had lunch at McDonald's. While she ate, she made up a list of the names she would call her kitten, if, that is, she ever was to have a kitten. I thought of her birthday three days away and wondered how much grief Sadie and Rose's aging hearts could take.

Taylor was still talking about kittens when I pulled up in our driveway. Angus was home. I could hear the rhythmic pounding of the CD upstairs in his bedroom, but Hilda wasn't back yet. I took some chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s from the freezer and made a sauce of yogurt, lime juice, and ginger to put on them after they were grilled. We could have couscous and a cuc.u.mber salad with the chicken. A nutritionally faultless meal from the woman who'd let her daughter eat two Big Macs, a large fries, and a cherry pie for lunch.

It was close to 3:00 by the time Hilda got home, and she was buoyant.

”I don't need to ask how it went,” I said. ”Obviously, Carolyn Atcheson didn't bar the door against you.”

”At first she almost did,” Hilda said, ”but once she invited me in and began to talk about Maureen Gault, she was unstoppable. I think it was cathartic for her.”

”Good,” I said. ”Let's go in where it's comfortable and you can tell me about Carolyn's catharsis.”

Hilda settled back into her favourite chair in the family room. ”To start with,” she said, ”Maureen seems to have affected Carolyn's life profoundly, but I have the sense that, until today, she hasn't discussed the girl with anyone.”

”Maureen Gault was just her student,” I said. ”Why wouldn't Carolyn talk about her?”

Hilda shrugged. ”For the same reason most of us avoid talking about a situation we've bungled.”

”What did she think she'd bungled with Maureen?”

Hilda's voice was grim. ”Just about everything. Joanne, Carolyn says Maureen Gault was pathological, and I trust her a.s.sessment. She's a woman who uses language carefully.”

”If she knew Maureen was pathological, she must have brought in a professional,” I said.

”It wasn't quite that simple. According to Carolyn, Maureen seemed normal enough when she started high school. In fact, she was quite a success socially. There was always a group of girls around anxious to do her bidding, and she thrived.”

”What went wrong?”

”Maureen overplayed her hand. According to Carolyn, she had to dominate every situation and manipulate every relations.h.i.+p. The more she could manipulate and humiliate her little group, the better Maureen seemed to feel about herself. Of course, it didn't take long for the girls to grow weary of being props for Maureen's self-esteem. They tried to break away and that's when the trouble began.”

”Serious trouble?” I asked.

”Serious enough. There were threats. A girl opened her locker one morning and found her schoolbooks smeared with human faeces. Another girl's house was broken into, and her clothes were shredded. Another's dog was killed.”

”And the school let this go on?”

”Carolyn went to Maureen's mother with the name of a psychiatrist. Of course, Mrs. Gault was furious. She kept demanding proof.”

”And there was none,” I said.

Hilda shook her head. ”Maureen Gault was too clever to carry out the revenge herself. She kept her distance and used a confederate.”

”Kevin Tarpley,” I said.

Hilda nodded. ”Kevin Tarpley.”

”And they were never caught,” I said.

”No,” said Hilda. ”They were never caught.”

I leaned forward in my chair. ”Hilda, did Carolyn Atcheson say anything about what Maureen and Kevin did to Ian?”

Hilda looked away.

”What did she say?” I asked.

Hilda's voice was low with anger. ”She said she wasn't surprised. She always knew it was just a matter of time before Maureen discovered murder.”

That night, as Hilda and I were finis.h.i.+ng our after-dinner coffee, the phone rang. It was Jane O'Keefe asking if we could get together. I arranged to meet her at her office at the Women's Health Centre the next day, after cla.s.ses. After I wrote the time of our meeting on my calendar, I decided I might as well fill up my dance card, and I called Tess Malone. She agreed to meet me in the Beating Heart offices at 2:00 that same day.

When I hung up, I was satisfied. The work of Sister Mouse was going well.

CHAPTER.

8.

The Regina Women's Medical Centre was located between a Mr. Buns Bakery and a bicycle store in a strip mall on the north side of the city. Jane had told me they chose the s.p.a.ce because the parking was free and the rent was cheap, but there had been no penny-pinching in the reception area. Jonquil walls blazed with Georgia O'Keeffe desert prints, a bra.s.s bowl of fat copper chrysanthemums glowed on the reception desk, and the crystal clarity of a Mozart horn concerto drifted from a CD player on the antique credenza in front of the window. The Women's Medical Centre had been decorated co-operatively by a group of pro-choice women in the city, and despite what Tess Malone told the public, the Centre had ended up owing more to Better Homes and Gardens than to Sodom and Gomorrah.

The receptionist had just finished announcing me, when Jane came out and motioned me to follow her down the hall. My gynecologist's office was decorated with posters from pharmaceutical companies: a pictorial history of contraceptive devices, a cross section of the uterus a instructive, but not exactly trompe-l'oeil. Jane's walls were filled with some serious female art: a Jane Freilicher amaryllis, so lush I wanted to touch it; an exuberant Miriam Schapiro abstract; an electric Faith Ringgold story quilt. On Jane's desk in a chased silver frame was a photograph of her with Sylvie. They looked to be in their middle teens. Tanned and grinning, they faced the camera. Life was ahead.

Jane didn't waste any time getting to the point. ”Howard called,” she said.

”I thought he might,” I said.

”He said he told you about Gary and me.”

I nodded.

She looked at me levelly, ”And ...?”

”And I don't understand. You're so close to Sylvie and you're too ... smart, I guess, is the word I'm looking for.”

Jane raised her eyebrows and laughed. ”Smart has nothing to do with it, Jo. This morning I had breakfast with a cardiologist who smokes two packs a day. Ask her about the relations.h.i.+p between what we know and what we do.”

”I didn't mean to sound judgemental,” I said. ”I know this isn't any of my business. But, Jane, you know, don't you, that when I talked to Howard I wasn't just digging for dirt.”

Jane smiled. ”You've never struck me as the logical successor to Julie Evanson. I can read, Jo. I've seen the papers. But can't you leave the investigating to the police?”

”No,” I said, ”I can't. Jane, I didn't kill Maureen Gault and, in my more optimistic moments, I'm reasonably sure the police are going to find that out, too. But until they do, I'm in limbo. Every day, I just get up and go through the motions, and it's getting to be a drag.”

”I know. The sword-hanging-over-your-head syndrome. We see it all the time in patients dealing with serious illness. The conventional wisdom is that the best way to deal with a hanging sword is to grab hold of it, take control.”