Gail Bowen - Burying Ariel

When the Kevin Coyle case erupted, the rampant empathy that had caused Ed and me to raise our eyebrows saved our department. Ben Jesse asked Livia to meet regularly with the women who had accused Kevin until the charges against him were given a fair hearing. Ben’s confidence that open communication would contain the women’s anger proved ill-founded, but the women trusted Livia, and when Ben died we all knew that Livia was our best hope for achieving reconciliation. Every member of our department supported her proposal that we make a special effort to recruit female candidates to fill the two vacancies created by Ben’s death and an early retirement.

Landing Solange, who was brilliant, had been a coup for our small university; however, Livia had been forced to argue Ariel’s case vigorously. Ariel’s paper credentials were acceptable rather than extraordinary, and she had interviewed poorly. The hiring committee found her warm and likeable, but equivocal about academic life. Livia, who had met Ariel the summer before at a women’s retreat on Saltspring Island, maintained that Ariel was simply suffering from post-dissertation ennui, and that by the time September rolled around she would be itching to get into a classroom. And Livia had a clincher. Unlike Solange, Ariel was a prairie girl who loved her birthplace. Our university wouldn’t be a stepping stone for her; it would, Livia assured us, be “forever.”

Livia had been right about Ariel – at least in part. The students had loved her, and she had been a glowing presence in our department. That morning when I heard Livia’s voice I felt the debt of her gift, the weight of her loss.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“It’s about Ariel’s class,” she said. “There are still three weeks to go, and you’re the logical one to take over.”

“Livia…”

She cut me off. “I know you planned to do some writing this spring, but plans change. I’ve learned that.”

“So have I,” I said. “Ian’s death taught me that nothing is certain. But Livia, I’m not getting any younger, and I haven’t exactly got a dazzling list of publications.”

“You still have the summer,” Livia said quietly. “Ariel doesn’t. Jo, she was so committed to this class.”

I could feel my pendulum being drawn into Livia’s rhythm. “Okay,” I said. “As soon as we get back from the lake, I’ll come up to the university and grab a syllabus and a class list.”

“Come this morning,” Livia said. “Then you’ll have the weekend to get prepared. Rosalie will have everything ready for you.”

I did not accept the yoke gladly, but as I drove to the university, I knew I had no right to complain. As Livia had pointed out, I did have the summer; besides, Alex had called, and for a novice he gave great telephone.

Ariel’s picture was still on the counter in the Political Science office. In front of it was a bud vase holding a single, perfect ivory rose. When I called hello, Rosalie looked up from her computer. She had done something new to her salt-and-pepper hair. For as long as I could remember, she had worn it tightly curled in the style my daughter Mieka called a Kurly Kate do. Now, the curl was relaxed into soft waves, and the colour was a uniform and becoming silver. “Nice look,” I said.

Rosalie reached up eagerly to touch her freshly feathered bangs. “The bridal book says not to try a new style the day of the wedding, so I thought I’d practise.” Her voice was as tentative as that of a girl preparing for her first date.

I tried not to smile. Until she met Detective Robert Hallam, Rosalie had approached life with the flexibility of a sergeant major. She knew exactly how life should be lived, and she was not forgiving of those of us who didn’t measure up. Love had come late to Rosalie. She was in her late fifties, and Robert was her first romance. When they met, he had been as intransigent and judgemental as she, and their mutual transformation had been a joy to watch.

“If I were you, I’d stop practising,” I said. “You’re not going to improve on that look. Now, come on. Fill me in. How are the wedding plans coming along?”

Her brow furrowed. “Pretty well, I think, except Robert’s been assigned to Ariel’s case, so he’s going to be putting in some long hours. He warned me last night that I’m going to have to be making some decisions for both of us.” She reached forward to save the work on her machine. “Joanne, did you go to the vigil for Ariel last night?”

“Yes.”

“I should have,” Rosalie said. “But I was still so upset, and I know it sounds selfish, but I want to enjoy this time before my wedding.”

“That’s not selfish,” I said. “You were better off at home. The evening got pretty unpleasant towards the end.”

“Robert had reports from some of the officers there. They said the situation was explosive.”

“I didn’t notice any police,” I said.

“They were female detectives, in plainclothes,” she said. Her voice lacked spirit. It was obvious her mind was somewhere else. She adjusted the diamond solitaire on her left hand. “Joanne, do you have a minute to talk?”

“Of course.” I pulled up a chair, so we could talk face to face. “Is there something I can help with?”

She laughed nervously. “It’s this business of being engaged to a policeman. I thought, since you and Inspector Kequahtooway are a couple, you might be able to help.”

“If I can.”

“I never know how much I should ask Robert about his work. I don’t want him to think I’m nosy; on the other hand, I do want him to know I’m interested.”

“Maybe it’s best just to follow Robert’s lead. A lot of the time, police officers live in a grim world. If Alex is any indication, sometimes they need to talk about anything except the case; other times they seem to need to talk it through.”

Rosalie looked thoughtful. “Last night, Robert must have needed to talk it through. I’ve never seen him so upset. Ariel’s case is really getting under his skin.”

“I guess until they have a suspect…”

“But they do have a suspect… at least they’ve brought someone in for intense questioning.”

“Who is it?”

“His name is Kyle Morrissey. He’s the young man who found Ariel’s body. His company sent him to work on some problem with the air conditioning in the sub-basement. He says he just took a wrong turn and ended up in the archive room.” She glanced around quickly to make sure we were alone. “Joanne, the police have had dealings with him before. Apparently, he has a violent temper.”

“So, why is Robert uneasy?” I said.

Rosalie’s face registered her distress. “He’s not certain they have the right man.”

“Why?”

“Instinct. Robert says that crimes like these typically involve rape. This one didn’t.”

I could feel the pinprick stirrings of anxiety. “So there was no evidence of forced sex?”

“None. She was just… slumped onto a table facing the front door. She was stabbed in the back. Robert said death was instantaneous.” Initially, Rosalie’s words had been halting; now they began to tumble out. “Robert said Ariel died from a single wound, surgically clean – doesn’t that sound terrible? And she didn’t struggle. There was nothing to indicate that Kyle Morrissey had tried to force himself on her. In fact, he called for help as soon as he found the body.”

“How did he get in? I thought those rooms were always kept locked.”

“They are – at least the doors the public uses are. But there’s a back door that workmen use. It opens up from the crawl space that has all the heating equipment and plumbing for the building.”

I leaned towards her. “Rosalie, maybe you shouldn’t say anything about this to anyone else.”