Gail Bowen - The Last Good Day

Taylor gave Leah a sidelong glance. “Is it okay if I go?”

“Absolutely,” Leah said. “The store closes at six-thirty sharp.”

“Six-thirty on a Saturday night?” I said. “That surprises me. I would have thought there’d be a lot of last-minute business.”

“Not for us,” Leah said. “Stan Gardiner says if people don’t have what they need by six-thirty, they can’t have needed it very much.”

“Very sensible perspective,” I said.

“Sensible and enlightened,” my son yelled from behind the meat counter. “Leah and I have a barbecue to go to.”

I walked back and checked out the meat cooler. “Anything you can recommend for Taylor and me?”

“There’s one last piece of beef tenderloin,” Angus said thoughtfully. “High-end stuff, but just before you came, Stan told me to sell it for what I could get. He doesn’t believe in keeping meat too long, and he says you ruin meat when you freeze it.”

Taylor and I dined elegantly that night. Beef tenderloin, tiny carrots, fresh peas, and fried bannock, a treat from Rose. After dinner, we took Willie for a walk along the beach. The sun smouldered against the horizon. We were, in that most poetic of phrases, in the gloaming. For years, I’d loved this time of day when the half-light signalled that the passions and frets of a day with kids had burned themselves out and that it was time to indulge in private thoughts. But that night the prospect of being alone with my private thoughts had little appeal.

Chris Altieri’s cottage was in darkness and we hurried past it, but piano music drifted through the open windows at Zack Shreve’s. Tonight, he was playing one of my favourites, Johnny Mercer’s “I Remember You.” The setting sun made a path of light across the silent lake. It was a night for memories, and as we walked along the horseshoe I found myself wondering whether the people inside the cottages were cherishing their memories or wrestling with them.

Taylor had been uncharacteristically quiet on our walk, and she’d been watching me carefully. “You’re not having a good time at the cottage, are you?” she asked.

“It’s been a rough week, Taylor.”

“Isobel says her mum never stops crying.”

“Mrs. Wainberg and Mr. Altieri were good friends,” I said.

“But he was friends with Mrs. Falconer, too, and Gracie says her mother hasn’t cried at all.”

“People react differently,” I said.

Taylor stopped to shake a pebble out of her sandal. “Gracie says her mum and dad fight every night.”

“That’s not good,” I said.

“I wouldn’t want people fighting at our house every night,” Taylor said.

“Neither would I.” I read the worry on her face. “You know what I’m in the mood for?” I asked.

“What?”

“Crazy eights,” I said. “Are you feeling lucky?”

Taylor grinned. “I wasn’t, but I am now.”

Our card game was raucous and diverting. When I tucked Taylor in, she’d lost her careworn look and was planning the next morning’s agenda. I was less keen about seizing the day. Even the prospect of enduring the next few hours was daunting. As far as I could see, my options had narrowed to a classic example of Hobson’s choice: go to bed, stare at the ceiling, and brood about the events of the afternoon, or stay awake, stare at the wall, and brood. The knock at the door was a relief.

Delia Wainberg’s hair was wet and curly, as if she’d just come from a swim or a shower, and she was wearing navy shorts and a white T-shirt. She looked like the kid sister of the haggard, urbane lawyer who strode up the aisle at the funeral Mass.

“Too late for a visit?” she asked.

“Not from you,” I said.

Delia followed me inside, then gestured towards the back porch. “Mind if we play through?”

The silver-dollar ashtray was in the dish drainer beside the sink. I picked it up and handed it to Delia.

“Thanks,” she said. She walked onto the porch, collapsed into the nearest chair, and lit up. “I’m supposed to find out why you blew off the reception today.”

“I ran into an ex-student of mine.”

“I said it was probably something like that.” Delia shrugged. “Anyway, you didn’t miss anything – my face is stiff from being stoic. What kind of sadist invented the post-funeral party anyway?”

“The theory is that the reception gives the bereaved a chance to connect with the living again.”

“Even if that’s the last thing the bereaved want to do?”

“Especially if that’s the last thing the bereaved want to do,” I said.

“I guess I see some logic there,” she said. “Enough chitchat. I’ve been sent to extend an invitation you can’t refuse.”

“Go for it.”

“We’re taking what remains of Chris out on the lake tomorrow morning.” She drew deeply on her cigarette. “His last boat ride, and the consensus is that you should come along.”

“I take it you didn’t lead the march to the consensus.”

“No, I think it’s a stupid idea.”

“I agree. You did your duty. Just report back that I said no.”

“It’s not that simple.” Delia extended a leg and wiggled her foot. She was wearing flip-flops with daisies. Frivolous footwear for a woman on a serious mission. “Anyway, you probably should say yes. Kevin wants you to come.”

“You got in touch with Kevin?”

“Lily did.” Delia arched an eyebrow. “According to her, Kevin would like you to go in his stead.”

“That doesn’t make sense either,” I said. “Kevin and I are friends, but we’re not…”

“You’re not lovers,” she crowed. “I knew it. The others all thought you were – that Kevin had sent you up here this summer to try you out – see how well you fit in with us.”

“That’s bizarre,” I said. “Delia, Kevin walked away from Falconer Shreve because he wanted something else. He’s hardly going to wander all over Tibet so that his ex-partners can check out his new girlfriend.”

“Thanks for the reminder.” Delia’s eyes glittered. “You’re right, of course. Kevin stopped caring about what we thought a long time ago. As far as he’s concerned the Winners’ Circle is dead and Falconer Shreve is just another shitty law firm.”

Delia’s face was grey. It seemed unconscionable to add to her burden. “I’ll be there tomorrow morning,” I said.

Delia slumped with relief. “I owe you,” she said, crushing out her cigarette.

“It’s the least I can do,” I said. “You’ve all been kind to us, and Kevin may not be a lover but he is a friend.”

“Sometimes that’s better,” Delia said. “Less wear and tear on the heart.” She stood, removed a fresh cigarette from her pack, and gave me a small smile. “So I’ll see you at the dock at five? Early, I know, but we wanted to get out on the water before the invasion of the Jet Skis.”

“Five is fine,” I said. “Delia, can I ask you something?”

She tensed. Her fingers still rested on the handle of the screen door, but her voice went unexpectedly hard. “If it’s about the rumour that Chris’s death wasn’t an accident, forget about it. I refuse to give headspace to that theory.”

“No, it’s something else,” I said. “Can you tell me about Clare Mackey?”

I was watching Delia carefully for a reaction. What I got wasn’t subtle. She shuddered as if she’d touched something loathsome. “If you know someone who’s thinking of hiring her, tell them to forget it.”

“She didn’t work out at Falconer Shreve?”

“Au contraire. She worked out fine – quite the rising star – then she just took off, leaving her files in an absolute mess.”

“Disorganized?”

“Oh, they were beautifully organized. They were also incomplete. A lot of lawyers, me included, carry information about cases around in their head. Sometimes it’s just safer that way. But if circumstances change, and you know you’re not going to be handling a particular file, you have a duty to your clients and to your colleagues to make sure somebody knows what you know. Little Clare must have been absent the day they covered that particular obligation in ethics class. When she got that job offer in Victoria, she just took off.”