Gail Bowen: The Last Good Day

The physical exertion of the doomed recovery efforts had taken its toll, and I slept deeply. When I awoke, light was pooling on my bedroom floor and the scent of roses hung in the air. For a sliver of time, I was blissful; then with the suddenness of a cloud blocking the sun, Chris Altieri’s face flashed into my consciousness. It took an act of will to plant my feet on the floor and take the first step that would begin the new day.

When I came into the kitchen, Leah was at the sink, rinsing dishes. She was wearing khaki shorts and a sleeveless white cotton blouse that showed off her tan. There was something achingly lovely about the way in which she performed this most commonplace of tasks, and I was grateful to her for offering me an anchor to moor me to the workaday world.

She poured us both juice. “Rose Lavallee picked Taylor up about ten minutes ago. She thought the girls shouldn’t have to see police all over the place, so she’s taking them to Standing Buffalo. She’s bringing them back at three-thirty.” Leah handed me my glass. “Her sister’s going to teach them how to knit.”

“Our neighbours seem to take care of everything,” I said.

Leah’s brow furrowed with concern. “I’m sorry, Jo. I should have listened to Rose. She said I should wake you up to see if it was okay for Taylor to go, but I figured that, after last night, you’d want to sleep.”

“You were right,” I said, relenting. “And it’ll be handy having a knitter around the house. This family goes through a lot of scarves and mitts.” I sipped my juice. “How’s Angus?”

“He seems okay,” she said. “I’m glad we’ve got the grand opening of Coffee Row today – keep him distracted.”

“Your elderly gents are not going to lack conversational topics,” I said.

Leah’s smile was thin. “Half the town is probably out there already, sitting on the picnic benches, trading grisly details.”

Coffee Row was Leah’s answer to a quandary that had developed the week she and Angus started managing the Point Store. Stan Gardiner still lived over the business, and whenever the bell tinkled, announcing that a customer had come through the front door, Stan came down to visit. His continuing presence created a problem in both diplomacy and logistics.

The number of items cottagers believed essential to their existence had grown exponentially since the 1940s, when Stan’s father had opened his store, but the square-footage inside the building hadn’t increased. Despite Stan’s best efforts, stock teetered on shelves and spilled onto the ubiquitous and universally despised display racks. Stock and fixtures weren’t the only problems. A pitched battle had developed between the old men who had been meeting in front of the pop cooler at the Point Store since they were pups, and the sleek young matrons who presided over the huge summer homes that crowded the lakeshore. In a phrase, the issue was squatters’ rights: the old men were for them, the young matrons were against them.

The situation into which Leah and Angus walked was fraught, but Leah had been quick to propose a solution. Her idea was simple: set up a few picnic tables under the old cottonwood trees at the side of the store, offer Stan’s friends refreshments, and give the sleek matrons who were ready to pay top dollar for free-range chickens and anything labelled organic a clean, well-lit place in which to shop. Stan himself had selected the name for the new place. It would, he said, be called Coffee Row, because there was no point sticking a fancy name on something when you could call it what it was. The news that Coffee Row would be opening the Tuesday after the long weekend had been the number-one topic among the Point Store’s customers for days. Chris Altieri’s death meant there would be another story.

My son’s girlfriend had a rare ability to scope out a situation, and that morning she was quick to take my measure. “I’m assuming you’d rather not talk about last night,” she said.

“Anything but,” I said. “Is everything under control for the grand opening?”

Leah pursed her lips. “Well, we’re getting there. But I could use a little help with the refreshments. Since it’s a special day, we’re serving sandwiches: bologna and egg salad. Speaking of which…” She went to the fridge and removed a large ceramic bowl heaped with hard-boiled eggs. “Time for me to get crackin’.”

We groaned in unison. “Nothing beats egg humour,” I said.

Leah set the bowl on the table between us, and we began.

I had just finished peeling the last egg when Angus came in. He lolled against the doorway with his face screwed in an expression of distaste. “This place smells like farts. What are you guys doing?”

“Making lunch,” I said, holding the bowl out to him.

Angus grabbed an egg. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m starving.”

“Got time to give your old mother a hug?” I asked. Leah took the bowl, and I drew my son close, savouring the coolness of his body and the dampness of his hair. Last night had been a sharp reminder that the threads linking us to those we love are fragile.

“It’s okay, Mum,” Angus said, breaking away. “I’m still here.”

“Which is great,” Leah said, “except that you should have been at the store twenty minutes ago. Got to wipe down those picnic tables, babe. Got to put on the oilcloth.”

“Oilcloth?” I said.

“Mr. Gardiner had a bolt of it in his barn,” Leah said. “It’s brown-and-white checked – very retro.”

“In that case, I’ll love it,” I said. “I’m pretty retro myself.”

Leah picked up a pastry cutter and began moving it smartly through the bowl of hard-boiled eggs. “Come to the opening,” she said. “Free food, and all the rotten coffee you can drink. I wanted to get beans from Roca Jacks, but Mr. Gardiner says his friends have been drinking floor sweepings all their lives and the good stuff would just confuse them.”

It was a tempting invitation, but after Leah and Angus left, the energy seeped out of me. Heavy-limbed and gritty-eyed, I had the sense I was inhabiting a body that had been punished hard and long. As I sat at the kitchen table, staring at my coffee, my Bouvier, Willie, nudged me. His message was clear. We usually hit the beach by 5:45 at the latest. We were very, very late.

Willie followed me to the bedroom and stared as I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. When I reached for my runners, he began to circle, then he directed me to his leash and the door. Bouviers do not rate high on the dog-intelligence scale, but when it came to his run, Willie fired up all the circuits.

It was a hot morning with a haze that hinted at the possibility of rain. Willie barked at the birds chilling out in Harriet Hynd’s bird bath, then dragged me towards the horseshoe of beach that surrounded the bay. We were both committed to the routine, but it appeared Willie’s dedication was of a deeper order than mine. The last sight I wanted to see on that tranquil July morning was the spot where Chris Altieri had died, but neither death nor trauma deterred Willie. As he had since we arrived, my dog headed straight for the dock beside the boat ramp.

The vehicles used in the investigation had chewed up the beach badly, and the dock was muddy and lashed with weeds, but the lake itself was as flat and benign as a plate. My throat tightened. I jerked Willie’s leash. “Time to go,” I said.

Running helped. It was a haiku day, worthy of seventeen syllables of celebration, and my endorphins were pumping. Survival seemed possible until I spotted the gazebo. I froze. Willie cocked his head, awaiting the next development. I reached down and gave him a reassuring pat; then, obeying an impulse I didn’t understand, I led him along the beach towards the overhang of land where the gazebo had been built.