Part 14 (1/2)

Manda yawned and stretched lazily. ”Gotcha,” she said. She put her head back against her husband's chest. ”I've had enough fun, Craig. Time to go.”

Manda and Craig moved towards the front hall. It wasn't long before the others followed. I was almost home free, and I felt a rush. In minutes, I would be on the phone talking to Tess Malone. Confronted with Henry's name, Tess would tell the truth, and I would be one step closer to the young woman in the picture.

As I was down on the hall floor, helping Jess find his boots, it hit me. Tess's number was unlisted. A phrase Howard Dowhanuik had used the morning after Maureen Gault's murder flashed through my mind. I'd been surprised that Sylvie and Jane had gone to Tess's for a drink after the dinner, and Howard had said, ”Tess and Sylvie are tight as ticks.”

I looked up at Sylvie. ”Have you got Tess Malone's home number?” I asked.

”What do you want it for?” she said.

Jane smoothed over the rudeness with a smile. ”More questions about Tess's old Ukrainian?”

”His name is Henry,” I said.

Jane knotted her scarf with her capable surgeon's hands. ”I thought you'd be out of the cops-and-robbers business now that you're in the clear.”

”I am,” I said. ”I just wanted to ask Tess if she was free for lunch one day next week.”

Without a word, Sylvie picked up a pad by the phone and wrote down the number.

”Time to leave,” Jane said. ”Come on, Sylvie, let's go.”

Already dressed for the outdoors, Jess stood with his father. Gary Stephens's hand was resting on his son's shoulder.

”Say goodbye, Jess,” Jane said, and she pushed Gary's hand from his son's shoulder and propelled the little boy towards the door.

”Bye,” Jess said. And he vanished into the night, closing the door behind him.

As he stood staring at the s.p.a.ce where his son had been, Gary Stephens's face was bleak. ”Goodbye,” he whispered, and his voice was so soft I could barely hear it.

After everyone had driven off, Hilda went to the kitchen to clean up, and the kids took the kitten down to the bas.e.m.e.nt to start the reconciliation process with Rose. Jill and I were left alone in the front hall.

”I take it the inspector's news means I'm off duty.”

”It does,” I said. ”You can go back to painting your nails and sticking pins in pictures of Nationtv vice-presidents.”

”Speaking of Nationtv,” Jill said, ”Keith Harris called from Was.h.i.+ngton this morning. He sends you his love.”

”Swell,” I said.

”He'd like to talk about human-rights violations among some of our trading partners on Sat.u.r.day's show. It's okay with Sam Spiegel if it's okay with you.”

”It's okay with me,” I said. ”That's right up my alley.”

”I'll bet that's why Keith suggested it,” Jill said, then she touched my hand. ”I'm glad everything worked out, Jo. I was really scared.”

Her gaze was so open and her affection so palpable that I almost told her the truth. Then I remembered how Jill had revered Ian, and I steeled myself. ”I'm glad everything worked out, too,” I said.

It was after 9:00 when I finally managed to get into my bedroom, close the door, and dial Tess's number. Late in the afternoon, Alex Kequahtooway had told the press about the evidence clearing me. I guess he'd decided it was time for the old squirrel dog to shake things up a bit. The telephone had started ringing during dinner, and it hadn't stopped. I'd never been very good at faking, and all evening I had cringed at the falseness of my voice as I tried to sound euphoric.

There were two phone calls that didn't require acting. The first was from Peter. He had been a rock, but now the worst was over. As he relaxed into the concerns of a third-year university student a the inequities of exam timetables, gossip about friends, hints about what he wanted for Christmas a he sounded relieved to be back to normal.

Mieka and her husband, Greg, called from Galveston to wish Taylor happy birthday, and their joy in being young and in love and discovering the world together was so tonic, I almost didn't tell them about the deaths of Kevin Tarpley and Maureen Gault. But we'd always told the kids that families couldn't function without trust, so after I'd listened to Mieka's descriptions of the beauty of the old houses along the Gulf of Mexico and Greg's account of how great a bucket of crayfish tastes when you wash it down with a schooner of Lone Star, I gave them the essentials. They were shocked, but as I answered their questions, I could feel them relax. The crisis was, after all, in the past, and as we rung off, I could hear the happiness returning to their voices.

Finally, the phone grew silent, the kids were in their rooms, and I was alone. I was so tense that my hands were shaking as I dialled Tess's number. There was no answer. I couldn't believe it. I had been so certain the answers were within reach. Ten minutes later, I tried again. After that, I tried every ten minutes until, finally, exhausted, I fell into bed.

For the next two days I tried to find Tess. She wasn't at home, and she wasn't at Beating Heart. No one knew where she was. The man who answered the phone at Beating Heart told me not to worry. Tess would show up. She wasn't the kind of woman to leave town without telling anybody. I told him that's why I was worried. Have a little faith, he said, and I promised him I would try.

Friday, I took Hilda to the Faculty Club for lunch before she drove back to Saskatoon. We ate liver and onions and made plans for Christmas. I loved her, but as I watched her manoeuvre her old Chrysler Imperial out of the university parking lot, I was relieved. Hilda was a hard person to deceive, and I was certain she knew I was concealing something critical from her.

I had three students to see that afternoon. When the last one left, I pulled the picture of the young woman and her baby out of my bag and propped it against my coffee cup. I tried Tess's home number. There was no answer. I looked at the picture and I knew I was tired of waiting. It was time for action.

The receptionist at Beating Heart had a great smile, eyegla.s.ses with bright green frames, and a sign on her desk that said, I'M MICh.e.l.lE, PLEASE BOTHER ME. But she turned her face away when I held the picture up and asked her if she knew the woman who was sitting on Santa's knee.

”We don't discuss clients,” she said.

”Was this woman a client?”

Mich.e.l.le pushed her chair back as if she was afraid I would force her to look at the picture. ”I don't know,” she said woodenly.

I moved closer to her. ”This is important,” I said. And then I added, ”It's a matter of life and death.”

It was an unfortunate choice of words. Mich.e.l.le leapt up from her desk and returned with an older woman who bore a startling resemblance to the actress Colleen Dewhurst and who looked as implacable as Colleen Dewhurst had looked when she played Aunt Marilla in Anne of Green Gables.

”Look,” I said, ”I think I got off on the wrong foot here. I'm a friend of Tess Malone's. I've been trying to reach her, but I can't. I need to find this young woman.”

When the two women exchanged a quick, worried glance, the penny dropped. They thought I was the enemy.

”I'm not trying to get her to change her mind about going through with her pregnancy,” I said. ”If you'll look at the picture, you'll see she already had her baby. It was at least six years ago. But I have to find her. It really is a matter of life and death.”

For the first time, the older woman smiled. She held out her hand. ”I wish you'd said at the outset you were a friend of Tess's. I think Mich.e.l.le and I jumped to the wrong conclusion about you.” She spoke with a slight accent, pleasant and lilting.

”My name is Joanne Kilbourn,” I said.

”Irish?” she asked.

”My husband's family were,” I said.

”Every last member of my family is Irish,” she said. ”My name is Maeve O'Byrne. Now let's look at your picture. What did you say the girl's name is?”

”I didn't say. I don't know.”

Maeve O'Byrne pulled out a pair of reading gla.s.ses. As she looked at the photo, I held my breath. It didn't help. She shook her head and handed the photo back. ”I don't recall her,” she said.

”Don't you have files?”

When she answered, there was a hint of asperity in the lilt. ”Yes, we have files, Mrs. Kilbourn. And like most organizations, we cla.s.sify them by name. Since you don't know the girl's name, we have nothing to go on. At any rate, you say this was over five years ago. If there was a file, it would have been destroyed. We cull inactive files after five years.”