Gail Bowen - The Last Good Day

“There’s not much to tell,” I said. “Twenty-four hours ago Christopher Altieri was just a name to me – there must have been dozens of people at that party who knew him better than I did.”

“You’re probably right, but so far we’re coming up empty. The peripheral people – clients, friends, other cottagers – are anxious to help, but all they say is that he was a great guy. The people who should have known him best – the juniors in the law firm, the partners and their spouses – aren’t saying anything. That leaves you.”

“And I have nothing to say.”

The life had come back into Alex’s obsidian eyes. “I think you do,” he said. “I hear you had a one-on-one talk with Mr. Altieri last night.”

“You’d be wrong to attach any significance to that,” I said.

“Would I?” Alex made no attempt to hide his skepticism.

“It was a party. Lots of people were having one-on-one talks.”

“But you were the only person who had a one-on-one talk with the man who was about to die.”

“Alex, if you’re asking me whether Chris told me anything that explains the way his life ended, the answer is no. Nothing else is germane. Why don’t you just let him rest in peace?”

For an awkwardly long time, we held one another’s gaze. Alex looked away first. “I wish to God I could let this rest in peace, Jo, but I can’t.”

In all our time together, I had never seen Alex appear frightened, but in that moment I knew there was something he was afraid of. “Alex, what’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked to the window and turned his back to me. “When I was growing up, I was out on this lake every day, swimming, canoeing, fishing, playing hockey. I knew it the way I knew my own body. These people have changed everything – cleared away all the brush, gouged the hills, bulldozed paths, transplanted the grasses that were here to places where they thought some indigenous grass might make them look culturally sensitive. Everything’s for appearance. This land means nothing to them. It’s just another playground.”

Suddenly I was furious. “Alex, you sound like a retread from the sixties. You hated living at Standing Buffalo. You left as soon as you could. You went to police college in the city, you got a job, and as far as I could see you never looked back.”

“Maybe that was a mistake,” he said softly. “Maybe we all would have been better off just staying where we were.”

“Who is this we you’re talking about? You’ve never divided the world into them and us before.”

“Maybe that was a mistake too.”

“Were you and I a mistake?”

Pain knifed his face, but he didn’t offer any reassurance that our three years together had been worthwhile. “Just be careful, Jo. You may be new to Lawyers’ Bay, but I’m not. I know these people. If anything comes up, you’ve got my number.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got your number.” The bitterness in my voice surprised even me.

A cloud of dust almost obscured the silver Audi as it sped up the road, but I was still able to see that, instead of heading straight for the highway, the car turned into the Falconers’ driveway. I had a pretty good idea about the purpose of Alex’s visit. Lily Falconer had been born and raised on the Standing Buffalo reserve too. Alex’s epiphany that blood was thicker than water had clearly prompted him to remind Lily that, in this world, there were two camps, and the wise stayed with their own kind.

Showered, splashed with my Mother’s Day extravagance of Bulgari, and wearing a polo shirt, slacks, and sandals, I arrived at Coffee Row just as the festivities were about to begin. There was a buzz when I arrived. I had, after all, been part of the drama the night before, but my star was eclipsed the moment Leah poured the ceremonial first cup of java and presented it to Stan Gardiner. No doubt about it, this was a big event. The photographer from the town paper was there, so were the reeve of the municipality and the three candidates contesting the riding in the next provincial election. Clearly, the combination of free food, bad coffee, and a homegrown tragedy was impossible to resist. Stan had made certain that his guests were seated at the picnic tables intended for them. Latecomers had to make do with sitting on the grass. No one – not even the sleek young matrons – seemed to mind. The risk of a grass stain was a small price to pay for inside dope on the tragedy.

I’d planned to help serve the food, but a gaggle of pre-teen girls beat me to the punch. Cheerful as bees, they glided among the tables in their bright summer shorts and tops, offering sandwiches and cookies, teasing and getting teased. I was less merry. Even bologna and mustard on Wonder Bread couldn’t banish the images of the night before. There was something else. Out of deference to my involvement in the tragedy, a sprightly gent with a walker had offered me his place at the picnic table nearest Stan and his friends. Eavesdropping was unavoidable, and what I heard did not improve my mood. The situation was as sizzling as the day, and as they hosed one another down with their theories, Stan Gardiner and his friends were gleeful.

Stan himself opened the discussion. “A lot goes on down there at Lawyers’ Bay that they don’t want people to know about. Why else would they have put up them gates out front?”

The question may have been rhetorical, but that didn’t stop the man on Stan’s left. After a meditative pull on his Player’s Plain, he floated an answer. “Sex, drugs, and rock and roll – that’s what they’re into.” He sucked back another lungful, cackled himself into a coughing fit, wiped his mouth smartly on his hanky, and continued. “Key parties, wife swapping, cocaine – they do it all.”

The man across from him made a moue of disgust. “Jesus, Morris, if you don’t cut out cigarettes, they’re gonna kill you.”

“I’m eighty-five, George,” the smoker said reasonably. “Something’s going to kill me.”

“Better sooner than later,” George said. “When you spew garbage like that about a decent man you make me impatient. That Chris Altieri was a nice young fella. When he was at the lake, he used to drive into town to Mass every day – real religious.”

Morris was unconvinced. “You don’t go to church every goddamned day unless you’ve done something wrong. If that Altieri guy was such a choirboy, why was that Indian cop sniffin’ around here all winter?”

George was judicious. “A cop isn’t just a cop. He’s a man, too. And a man can have reasons to sniff around that don’t have anything to do with his job.”

“I get your meaning,” Morris said.

“So do I,” Stan Gardiner said. “And enough’s enough. There are women and children around. One thing I know, nobody sniffed around when Harriet Hynd was alive. She was a lady through and through, and Russell Hynd was a gentleman. No gates on the bay in their time.”

Coffee Row was still on full perk when I left. My cottage, empty of children and responsibilities, was mercifully stimulant free, and I welcomed the tranquillity. I was bone-tired, and I needed to be alone. As they always seemed to, the members of the Winners’ Circle had anticipated my needs. Taylor was one of the delights of my life, but that day I was relieved that Rose Lavallee had taken my daughter under her wing. Rose was so tiny that she could have bought her clothes in the pre-teen department at the Bay, but there was no doubting her common sense and reliability. I made myself a cup of Earl Grey, picked up Harriet’s copy of To the Lighthouse, and read until the mid-afternoon shadows danced across the ceiling. By the time the kitchen clock struck three, I had wearied of the grace with which Mrs. Ramsay presided over the seashells, bird skulls, and conflicting needs of her sons, daughters, and friends. I wanted a protagonist in my own image, a woman who was grateful none of her kids were around to watch her sulk over an old lover who apparently had wasted no time before he began sniffing around for a shiny new replacement after he’d dumped her.