Gail Bowen - Burying Ariel

“Grief isn’t guilt,” I said.

“I’m not saying Solange is guilty of anything.” Livia’s voice was tight. “I’m just saying she’s unbalanced, and that means there’s no way of predicting what she is or is not capable of doing.”

I thought of the girl at the Ice Capades, so determined to survive that, even as her body was being violated, she was able to find refuge in imagining that the cheap sequinned costume of a professional skater could be protective armour. Solange had spent a lifetime creating a persona that would make her impervious to assault. Not many of us had seen the woman beyond the persona, but Ariel had. Solange had allowed Ariel Warren into her private world. How had she reacted when Ariel announced that she no longer wanted to be a part of that world, that she wanted a different kind of life, one that didn’t include Solange? Charlie’s words echoed. “She’s done some terrible things.” How terrible was “terrible”?

“I think we have to talk to Bob Hallam about this,” I said. “If he knows how fragile Solange is, he’ll be gentle with her. I can call him if you like.”

“No.” Livia’s response was swift. “I’ll handle this, Joanne. It was my mistake. I’ll fix it.” Her voice had been so decisive, I expected her to head straight for the parking lot; instead, she stopped before the cairn with the copper plaque. Then, in a small, private voice, she read the third stanza of

‘The Road Not Taken.’ And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

The gesture seemed stagy, theatrical, but when Livia turned, her eyes were filled with tears. “Why is it that we never know how ‘way leads on to way’ until it’s too late?” she asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, she walked away.

“To paraphrase my favourite old lizzie, Gertrude Stein, ‘a cage is a cage is a cage.’ ” Ed Mariani and I were standing in front of the pastel silk and bamboo pleasure dome that housed his nightingale, Florence. “Barry and I can’t bear to come into this room any more. It’s so depressing.” Ed shot me a sidelong glance. “Taylor was quite taken with the whole set-up. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in

…?”

“Not for all the tea in China. Willie is already grinding me down, and if you think a caged Florence is a bummer, consider how you’d feel if Bruce and Benny decided to make her the blue plate special.”

Ed laughed grudgingly. “You’re sounding chipper.”

“I’m faking it,” I said. “It’s been one hell of a week, and it’s not showing signs of improvement.”

A shaft of sunlight hit the corner of Florence’s cage, and Ed adjusted a plum-blossom silkscreen to diffuse it. “I’ve been keeping up with the Web page,” he said. “Ann Vogel is pulling out all the stops. If she’s not careful, she’s going to find herself in court. That letter is libellous.”

“Livia doesn’t think Ann Vogel wrote it,” I said. “According to Livia, Solange is the one who travels in circles so ideologically pure they would have no compunction about making autopsy photos public if it served the cause. I tend to agree with Livia about Ann, but not for the same reason. When she was my student, even subject-verb agreements strained her thought processes, and that letter is elegantly written.”

“The phrasing may be elegant, but it reflects an ugly mind.”

“Or a troubled one,” I said. “This morning Livia told me that Solange has a history of psychiatric problems.”

Ed frowned. “And this just came to light?”

“Livia knew,” I said. “Apparently when Solange applied for the job here, Livia called her referees and encouraged them to open up.”

“The new and improved Livia is a thorough woman,” Ed said dryly. “I’ve always believed that needlepoint she hung in her office when she became department head was intended as a warning to us all. ‘No Surprises.’ ” He shuddered. “So what was Solange’s surprise?”

“Livia says clinical depression.”

Ed winced. “That’s a nasty one. More to the point,” he said thoughtfully, “it doesn’t fit.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I remember what it was like when the vulture was hovering. Thanks to Barry and Prozac, my bouts with depression are in the past, but when it was at its worst, I could barely manage to put on my socks in the morning. If she truly is suffering from depression, I don’t think Solange would be capable of organizing this latest campaign.”

I took a deep breath. “Would she be capable of committing murder?”

Ed’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Charlie told me last night that when Ariel told Solange she was moving on, there was a lot of anger.”

Ed’s face registered surprise. “Did Solange’s relationship with Ariel go beyond friendship?”

“I don’t know that either.” I threw up my hands in defeat. “Even if it did, it’s no one’s business unless…”

“Unless the breakup ended violently,” Ed finished for me. “It happens, you know.”

“I know,” I said. “I just hope it didn’t happen in this case.” I picked up the stack of mid-terms from the coffee table. “Thank God for marking,” I said. “It keeps the fingers busy and the mind semi-engaged. And I owe it all to you. I really appreciate your proctoring the exam, Ed. Promise me you’ll let me return the favour.”

He gave me a smart salute. “Scout’s honour.”

When I reached into my purse for the car keys, my fingers hit the small box I’d been carrying around since Wednesday. I pulled it out and handed it to Ed with a flourish. “And here’s your merit badge for hospitality. Our family had a sensational Victoria Day weekend at the lake.”

Ed took out the sparrow and held it to the light. “Lalique,” he said. “I won’t say you shouldn’t have done it because I love her already, but these don’t come in Frosted Flakes.”

“Luckily, they can be found at high-end garage sales.” I said. “Like Florence, your Lalique sparrow has already known another home. You seem destined to own second-hand birds.”

Ed ran his finger over a crystal wing. “Then perhaps Barry and I should accept our fate with grace,” he said. “I can almost hear Livia intoning that this is our way of acquiring good karma.”

The first thing I did when I got home was check Eli’s room. Charlie still hadn’t shown up. There were no messages on the voice mail. It was obvious there had been a change of plans; it was equally obvious that neither Howard nor his son had seen any point in telling me. Howard’s failures to communicate were legendary, and I was neither worried nor nettled.

The day was getting lovelier by the moment and, while I did have work to do, there was no reason I couldn’t do it outdoors. I made myself a pot of green tea and took the mid-terms out to the sunshine of the back deck; by lunchtime, I’d made a small but measurable dent in the pile. After I’d eaten, I took a swim. As I was changing out of my wet suit, my bed looked so inviting I put on my pyjamas and slid between the sheets.

I woke to the sound of Charlie Dowhanuik’s voice, but when I opened my eyes it wasn’t Charlie standing beside the bed, it was Eli. He was wearing khaki shorts and a T-shirt and holding a portable radio.

“I’m sorry to wake you up,” he said, “but I thought you should listen to this.”

Charlie was in full rhetorical flight. “The word ‘mob’ is a shortened form of the Latin mobile vulgus, ‘fickle common people,’ ” he said. “For the Romans, the mob was harmless enough, a bunch of boys and girls with a fondness for bread and circuses. Your basic WWF crowd. But mobs have changed. Today, right here in our city, there’s a mob forming. And the people in it aren’t just good old boys and good old girls. They’re sophisticated. They even have their own Web site. Their name may sound innocent but, make no mistake, the Friends of Red Riding Hood are not fairy-tale characters. They’re beasts who feed on the stupid, suck up the gullible, then move along, leaving nothing behind but a reeking spoor of self-righteousness. Fight them. Now… back to the Dave Matthews Band.”