The Dead Letter (23 page)

63.

The sound of her vacuum cleaner had masked
the
opening and clos
ing of both the outside door and the entry to the main room of her boarding house, but she had caught a stray shimmer of light from that direction and that's when she turned and saw Jacob Dawson entering.

“Where were you last night?”

Jacob looked well but sheepish, almost as if he was being reprimanded by his mother. Irene MacLeod was no mother in the real sense, but she did feel a maternal draw toward Jacob. The two other boarders in the house were older men, more independent and hardened by life. Jacob exhibited a veneer of toughness sometimes, but Irene viewed him as an innocent when it came to the real world. He was accustomed to its travails, but had enjoyed few of its joys and, having walked so often along the paths of his troubled life, he had no reliable compass to guide him toward happiness. And this worried Irene.

“I'm okay, if that's what you mean,” he said smiling at her. “I smell soup.”

“Are you hungry?”

Jacob nodded.

“It's in the kitchen. Wasn't sure if you'd be here, but I made some on the chance.”

Jacob dropped his backpack near the door and headed for the kitchen. He looked hungry.

“Did you have breakfast?” she asked.

“I did. I stayed at my sponsor's overnight.”

“Is that customary?”

“No, but I had a lot of stuff to unload. It was good to have somebody to listen…somebody who's been there.”

Irene ladled a bowl of beef barley soup into a bowl and set it in front of Jacob. She set a ham sandwich next to it. She added half a pickle. Then she sat down and watched Jacob wolf down the food. She felt happy.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

His mouth was full, and he nodded vigorously.

“We talked half the night. Then we worked out a way to take some pressure off.”

“Good. So…what shall I do with that quart of whisky? Toss it?” Irene asked.

“Or give it to somebody who doesn't need it.”

Ben wouldn't have believed it if someone had told him that Anne had taken his advice, but she had. She would have vigorously denied that she frittered away an afternoon, but that was what it amounted to, at least by her standards.

Ordinarily, she would have followed her pattern of jogging from home toward Victoria Park and following the boardwalk along the water. The rhythmic padding of her feet and the ever-pleasing and ever-changing vista of Charlottetown harbour had always been refreshing, but she couldn't follow that routine today. The car explosion had not seriously injured her, but its effects had left her worn and uninspired.

Instead, she headed for the gym. Only a few others shared the recreational equipment with her that afternoon. She had a routine there, too. Stationary bike for cardio; bench press, leg curls, and arm curls for strength; and then the speed bag.

She forced herself through her strength regimen and felt rather satisfied with herself when she matched her last weight and rep count. Then she slipped on a pair of light boxing gloves and strode
over to the speed bag.

She set up a slow one-two rhythm, then picked up the speed and shifted to double hits when she felt comfortable. Then she shifted back and forth between the two, the bag thumping hypnotically all the while. Occasionally, she lost the rhythm, but brought it back again and again. The rhythms were mesmerizing and soothing, and one could almost drift into mindlessness within the pattern.

Eventually, Anne grew tired and self-aware, but she also became more agitated and angry as if something ugly were working its way up from deep inside her. She abandoned the cadenced punching. Hard jabs and crosses took its place. Her attention to the bounce and gyrations of the bag grew more intense and focussed because Anne saw something that no one else could see in the bobbing, elusive leathery bag. She saw the smug leers of Buddy and Frank—the ones who had terrorized her on that dark country road. She saw the frightening sneer of Cutter Underhay who had tried to kill her and her daughter. She even saw the duplicitous faces of MacEwen and Carmody and Peale whose political goals had obstructed her investigation.

After she had finished, her chest heaved and her arms felt like lead. Beads of sweat rolled down her face and neck. Her T-shirt was damp, but somehow she felt strangely pleased. It wasn't until she had spent ten minutes in the sauna that she felt a wave of exhaustion sweep down upon her. She showered, changed into street clothes, pinned back her half-dried hair, and drove home.

The house was quiet with Jacqui away. Too quiet, thought Anne. She turned the TV on for company. She flicked through the channels, but nothing caught her interest. She thought about making supper, but, with Jacqui's absence, there was no point. Besides, she felt too exhausted to eat. Perhaps later, she thought. Then she lay back on her couch, pulled a blanket over her, and descended into a deep sleep almost at once.

The sun was lowering. The TV fluttered. Commentators and show hosts jabbered away, but Anne was oblivious to it all.

“She sent me packing,” said Walter Bradley, Chief Investigator with the Department of Labour.

“What did she say?” asked MacEwen, his boss's boss.

Walter Bradley had been around politics long enough to know that he had better choose his words carefully or his future might become suddenly very unpredictable, and he was just five years short of retirement.

“I knocked on the door, identified myself, and asked her if I could enquire about her application for exhuming the remains of Simone Villier.”

“Go on,” said MacEwen impatiently.

“‘Can't you leave me alone?' she says. Those were her exact words. Then she tries to shut the door. My foot was already halfway in and caught it. I say, ‘I'm conducting an official investigation for the Province and need to know if anyone pressured you to file that application. Ms. Darby, for example. Did she urge you to file the papers?'”

“And did she?” asked MacEwen.

“The woman wouldn't give me a straight answer. She kept saying ‘What difference does it make? I don't give a care for the paper. Do what you want with it? She wasn't pregnant.' I say, ‘What do you mean?' and she says, ‘It doesn't matter anymore. Simone wasn't pregnant. Nothing matters now. So get your damn foot out of my door and go away before I call the police.' So I leave. And that's what happened,” said Bradley, and he looked closely at the Labour minister to determine if he had given the proper answer.

MacEwen said nothing. He got up and left the room, tossing back a quick “thank you” on his way out.

MacEwen returned to his office, closed the door behind him, and picked up his desk phone.

“Wendell, just wanted to get back to you on the matter we were discussing. The mother was distraught. Not much to go on yet. But it seems she's lost interest in exhuming the body. No. She just keeps on saying that she wasn't pregnant, and she doesn't care anymore. So it's good news. Pass it along to Fenton? Right.”

MacEwen hung up his phone and breathed a sigh of relief.

64.

Madame Desjardins gave instructions to Jacqui, left an emergency number, and told her that she would return around twelve, but not later than one. Her seven-year-old son, Luc, gave her a hug and returned to watch the end of a Disney special on cable. He was snacking on a plate of orange slices when Madame Desjardins left.

Jacqui sat down beside him on the carpet. She chatted about the TV programs she had watched as a child, and she pointed out the high quality of graphic effects in the film that he was watching, but Luc was more interested in the pleasure of the experience than Jacqui's childhood memories or qualitative analysis. Then the doorbell rang.

Jacqui opened it to Rada. The sight of her was a surprise.

“Hi.”

“I didn't think you'd be coming,” said Jacqui. “after what your father said.”

“I didn't know if I'd be coming either,” said Rada. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” said Jacqui, and waved her into the room. “This is little Luc Desjardins,” she said.

“I'm not ‘little,'” he said without looking up.

“Luc, this is Rada. She's my friend, and she'll be visiting a while. Is that okay?”

Luc looked at Rada, nodded, and returned to his program.

“He's almost ready for bed…not quite as sociable as usual. Did your father change his mind?”

“No. Neither have I. We had an argument, and he told me I couldn't leave the house for the whole weekend. I told him I promised to help you babysit. It made no difference. He never changes his mind.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I went to my room, locked my door, changed, and went out the window.”

“I'm not so sure that was a good idea.”

“I have the right to opinions, don't I? I have the right to make my own friends, don't I?”

“I guess,” said Jacqui. She couldn't recall Rada ever speaking so harshly or angrily before.

Rada removed her hijab and sat down on a large armchair. Her cheeks were damp with tears.

The TV movie had ended, and a series of tasteless, loud commercials flashed across the screen. Luc looked up and over toward Rada.

“Why is she crying?” he asked.

“Rada is having a sad day,” said Jacqui.

“Why?” he asked.

“Maybe she'll tell you another time. Right now, it's bedtime. Your mother said. Remember? Right after the show. So off we go.” Jacqui laughed, scooped him up, and carried him off to his bedroom.

Jacqui tucked Luc into bed, kissed him good night, and returned to the living room a few minutes later. She heard water running in the washroom. Then the doorbell rang again, and she ran to answer it.

Bobby Fogarty and Sig Valdimarsson stood in the open door frame looking very uncomfortable.

“Ya know, it just doesn't feel right, knocking on a teacher's door in the middle of the night,” Bobby said.

“It is kinda creepy,” added Sig.

“It's not the middle of the night. It's eight o'clock. And what's to be scared of? Madame Desjardins is a nice teacher.”

“Yeah…but still…”

“Well, don't just stand there. Come in. Sit,” she said, pointing them toward the sofa.

Jacqui started to giggle.

“What's so funny?” Self-consciously, Bobby examined his clothes. Perhaps he had spilled something on them, he thought.

“You both look so-o-o guilty right now. It's funny, but cute, too. Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Thanks. You've been out of touch with everyone for a couple days. Didn't know what was up. Heard rumours. You all right?”

“Nothing serious. Just shaken up. Mom is overprotective. So she boarded me with a friend of hers. I'll be back on Monday. Miss me?”

“Sure.” Bobby sounded uncertain, but Jacqui didn't notice.

Instead, she looked admiringly at Bobby. Then she looked confused. Bobby's eyes and the eyes of Sig were fixed somewhere else. Jacqui swung her head around. Rada had just entered the room. She, too, looked confused.

“I don't think you've met. Rada, this is my friend Bobby Fogarty, and this is Sig Valdimarsson. You may have seen them at the school. Boys, this is Rada Kikovic, my buddy.”

Rada took a seat in the other armchair, across from Sig. She clasped her hands together and cradled them in her lap. Her eyes avoided the boys on the sofa and alternated between Jacqui and the oval coffee table and the paintings on the wall.

“Can I get anyone a coke?” That seemed to get Sig's and Bobby's attention, and that was good enough for Jacqui. “Rada, would you like to pour a few glasses? I'll have one, too. I brought a bottle. It's in the fridge. Ice in the freezer, glasses over the sink, first cupboard on the right.”

Rada felt not only ill at ease but physically ill as well. She felt like a rabbit caught in an open field. She could scarcely move, and her thoughts had broken apart into glittery bits that defied repair. So Jacqui's request of her was a relief. Any excuse to leave the room provided a respite.

Sig felt self-conscious as well. He had been staring at her, but he couldn't help himself. Something about her compelled his eyes to follow her. He saw a serenity and dignity and quiet beauty that he had never experienced before, and it was intoxicating. He imagined that she had caught him staring at her, and he looked quickly away. Until now, his glances had been fleeting, but, when she stood to leave, their eyes met and lingered momentarily and, for each fraction of that second, both of them experienced a trembling of undefined emotion and fear.

Sig's eyes lingered a bit longer and bolder than hers. They followed her as she left the room and headed into the kitchen. Her eyes were bright, her skin was smooth, and the way she moved seemed both naive and sensuous. Sig felt uncomfortable when he found himself staring at the empty doorway through which she had disappeared, so he returned his attention to Bobby and Jacqui.

“Big party?” asked Jacqui. Bobby shrugged.

“No. Just Sig and me, my sister, mom and dad.”

“What'd you get?”

“A really good pair of soccer shoes. Interchangeable cleats.”

“Cool.”

“And clothes,” he said, gesturing toward the zip-up sweater he wore. “Part cashmere.”

Jacqui reached across and ran her hand over the sweater.

“That's so-o-o soft,” she said. “I love it.”

Jacqui heard the clink of glasses in the kitchen and motioned to Sig.

“Would you give Rada a hand in the kitchen with the drinks, please, Sig? Thanks.”

Sig blinked, faltered, and managed to nod. Sig had an athletic build and played on two varsity teams throughout the year. Nevertheless, he felt unusually awkward and ungainly as he stood and walked toward the noises Rada was making in the kitchen.

“Here's something else,” she added. Jacqui reached into a cloth bag next to her chair and pulled out a rectangular package. It was wrapped. A red ribbon encircled it. A bow fronted it.

“What is it?” Bobby gave it a little shake.

“You have to open it to find out,” she said.

Bobby gave her a little grin, and then he attacked the wrapping with a disturbing vitality. The ribbon, bow, and wrapping paper fell to his feet, and Bobby held the present in his hand, at a suitable distance away in order to scrutinize it. It was a picture, matted and framed, and signed by the artist.

“Cool,” he said. “What is it?”

“It's a picture…,” she said. “…of you… I sketched it myself.”

“Thanks, Jacqui. That's real nice.”

Sig and Rada walked into the room, glasses of pop in their hands. The ice clinked with each step. Both were smiling. “Look,” said Bobby. He held up his present.

“It looks kinda like you,” said Sig with uncertainty.

“It is him,” said Rada.

“That's what I said.”

Then the doorbell rang several times, and there were impatient knocks on the door.