Gail Bowen - The Brutal Heart

“I take it that a listening is what we used to call a meeting.”

“You take it correctly.” Jill said. “So how soon can I have something to pitch?”

“Friday noon,” I said. “And it’s not going to be great. There’s been a lot going on.”

“Give that lady a cigar. Guess why you got green-lighted? We’ve got some dynamite footage of Ginny.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“But you’re okay with using Ginny because it’s your project?”

“No, I’m okay with using material about Ginny because she understood from the outset this program was going to be about how women in politics were treated differently from men.”

“Strike two,” Jill said.

“Actually, that was strike three,” I said. “When I called, you didn’t even bother to say hello.”

“So, are you counting me out?”

“Never,” I said. “Jill, remember what you used to say to servers who gave us lousy service in a restaurant?”

“ ‘Why don’t you try to find a job you actually enjoy?’ ”

“It’s still good advice,” I said. “I’ll have the story on Ginny to you by Friday noon.”

Zack and I had our breakfast on the deck alone. Taylor was on the decorating committee for the Farewell, and they were meeting that morning to scope out the gym. When I carried the breakfast tray out, the papers were stacked neatly by my plate. “Let’s ignore the news.” I said.

Zack reached over, took the three newspapers in hand, and dropped them on Taylor’s empty chair. “What news?” he said.

He chortled when I told him about Lena’s cinnamon toast but frowned when I mentioned the babysitting Friday night. “I’m in Saskatoon,” he said. “I’ve got that dinner for Morton Lamb, the judge who’s retiring from the bench at least ten years too late. I thought I told you.”

“You did,” I said. “I forgot. Anyway, it’s not a problem. I’m fine with the girls on my own.”

“I’m not fine,” Zack said. “I’d rather be with you and the kids than listening to poor old Mort bleat on about back in the day.”

“It’s only one night,” I said. “If you get back early enough Saturday morning, we can go to the lake.”

Zack poured us coffee. “I’ll get back early enough.”

“Hey, guess who Mieka’s going out with Friday night?”

“Jack the Ripper.”

“Sean.”

“I thought that was off.”

“This is just a friendly dinner to celebrate Sean’s junior partnership.”

Zack sipped his coffee. “I’m glad that didn’t end on a sour note. Delia and I were talking the other day about trying to get some of the fun back into Falconer Shreve.”

“You could start a bowling team. Join a league.”

Zack raised an eyebrow. “A bowling team of lawyers? Now that’s a scary thought. Wouldn’t you feel guilty putting me in a situation where Margot could aim a fourteen-pound bowling ball at me?”

“Not if I could watch,” I said. I poured cream on my porridge. “So how does your day look?”

“Not bad. I’m in court this morning, then I’m going to meet with my client, the gynecologist, who is suing her gynecologist over a tubal ligation that ended up with my client giving birth to the nastiest baby I’ve ever seen. I have three-quarters of an hour to scare the shit out of the fifteen-year-old son of the president of Peyben because his dad thinks the kid is headed for serious trouble and he’d rather pay up front than foot the bill when the kid is tried as an adult. After that, I’m going to try again to find Francesca Pope, then come home and work on my speech honouring Morty Lamb.”

“Zack, do you think you should get the police to look for Francesca? She brought those bears over last Thursday. It’s been five days.”

“Too long,” Zack agreed. “But the cops are the last resort. Francesca’s terrified of authority figures. If I can’t find her myself, I’ll get the investigators Sean hired to look for her. They must have women working for them.”

“Francesca doesn’t like men?”

“She’s easier with women.”

“But she reacted so badly to Ginny.”

“Guess Francesca just doesn’t like Ginny,” Zack said. “Oh, one other tidbit: Debbie Haczkewicz called when you were on the phone.”

“Have the police come up with something?”

“Not that they’re telling me. Debbie was pretty tightlipped, but she didn’t press me at all about Ginny so I have a feeling the cops may be closing in on someone.”

“But you don’t know who?”

“Don’t know and don’t care, as long as it’s not my client. And more good news: the reason Debbie called was to tell me Bree Steig is back in the land of the living. She doesn’t remember anything about the circumstances of the beating. That’s not unusual with head injuries. In a way, it’s a blessing. Anyway, Bree’s going to be all right.”

“Can she have visitors?”

“I’m sure Debbie will put you on the list. Do you want to talk to Bree?”

“I just thought I’d take her some flowers.”

“You’re probably the first person who ever has.”

“That’s why I’m going to take them,” I said.

Zack pushed the dish of cashews towards me. “Have a fistful, on the house. One good deed deserves another. So what else do you have on the agenda today?”

“I’m going to persuade Keith to have lunch with me before I drive him to the airport, and I’m going to call your new junior partner and ask him to talk to me about his impressions of Ginny’s campaign. He might have something I can throw into the mix.”

“And you might find out if his intentions towards Mieka are honourable.”

“That too,” I said.

I spent a couple of hours in my office having a go at the first draft of my proposal, then I stopped by a florist on 13th Avenue. I chose a spring bouquet for Bree and started looking around for a congratulatory bouquet for Margot. I’d settled on an arrangement of stargazer lilies when I remembered Margot telling me that Zack’s invariable gift to women he was dumping was a nice note and a hundred bucks’ worth of flowers. I paid for Bree’s bouquet and walked up the street to a shop called the Embroidery Works. My aim was modest, a T-shirt, but when I walked inside, I knew that this was my lucky day. On a sale rack by the door was a single yellow and maroon satin bowling shirt. I took it to the clerk, told her what I needed embroidered on it, asked her to courier the finished shirt to Margot’s office, paid, and left triumphant. I was still aglow with self-congratulation when I put my key in the ignition to drive to Regina General. Some days, I just had all the moves.

Bree had been moved from intensive care to one of the wards, but she was in a private room with the door locked, and the nurse at the station asked for my ID before accompanying me down the hall and letting me in to see her patient.

She was propped up in bed. There was a large bandage across the top of her skull and an intravenous tube was taped to the vein of her left hand. Without makeup and wearing her skimpy blue hospital gown, Bree Steig looked much younger than she had the evening I met her at Nighthawks. She was hard at work on a colouring book opened on the tray in front of her.

Her face brightened when she saw the flowers. “Are those for me?”

“They are,” I said.

“Pink and purple, my favourite colours. Can I hold them?”

I moved her tray aside and handed her the vase. She sniffed the flowers and beamed. “I feel like a bride.” She giggled. “Bet I don’t look like a bride, except maybe the Bride of Frankenstein.”

“You look fine,” I said, and in truth, she did. The hectic glitter was gone from her pale eyes, and her skin had lost its sallow cast.