The Glass Coffin (8 page)

“Sounds like a load of crap to me too,” Kevin said, “but that’s the tradition.”

Taylor cocked her head. “What if I start dreaming about a boy I totally hate.”

“Flush the cake down the john, go back to bed, and call me for a replacement in the morning,” Kevin said and threw his head back with a laugh that was so infectious people standing around them smiled.

“Sorry to break this up,” I said. “But I really have had enough fun, Taylor.”

Usually it took dynamite to blast Taylor loose when she was having a good time, but after a quick glance at my face, she was surprisingly agreeable. “I guess we should go home,” she said to Kevin. “Every time we stay out too long, our animals knock the Christmas tree down.”

“Then you’re wise to make tracks,” Kevin said. He handed us each a tiny box tied with ribbon printed with images of the Rainbow Dancers. “Don’t forget your cake,” he said. “And don’t forget to dream.”

Felix and Jill were sitting an abandoned table, heads close, conversation heated. Felix mumbled something I couldn’t hear, then he raised his voice. “And honour doesn’t mean anything?” At that point, Jill noticed me and gestured to Felix, who turned to me with a strained smile. “Creative differences.” Felix’s German accent became stronger when he was upset, and now, when he said, “Whenever we’re together, we seem to end up talking shop,” all the w’s turned into v’s.

“I won’t intrude,” I said. “I just wanted to tell you the kids and I are taking off.”

I was surprised that Jill looked so stricken. “Can I come by tomorrow for a quick visit before we leave?”

“Of course.” I looked at her closely. “Jill, is anything wrong?”

She chewed her lip in a gesture of anxiety I knew too well. “A lot of things are wrong, Jo. Where are the grown-ups now that we need them?”

“In the mirror,” I said. “We’re it, Jill.”

“For better or for worse,” she said. She turned to Felix. “Why don’t you get us all a drink – a real drink – something with plenty of alcohol and no bubbles. It would be nice to have a moment together before …”

“Before you begin married life?” Evan seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. When he brushed Jill’s arm, she stiffened. It did not seem an auspicious beginning for a marriage. Neither did the fact that Evan had applied fresh concealer to what was now clearly a deep and painful bruise on his jawline. The tension at the table was palpable, and I wasn’t keen to add to the angst.

“Why don’t you stop by the house tomorrow? We can talk then,” I said.

“Am I included in the invitation?” Evan asked.

“Of course,” I said.

He held out his hand to me, then immediately withdrew it. “Thanks,” he said. He locked his hands behind his back. “I promise to keep my distance.”

I found Angus and Bryn standing by the piano, flanked by her aunts. Surprisingly, when I said we were leaving, Angus didn’t complain. In fact, he seemed almost relieved.

“I’ll see if I can score a cab for us,” he said.

Claudia pointed towards the driveway. “The limo driver’s down there, cooling his heels. Ask him to give you a ride. We’re going to be stuck here till the last varmint is hung.”

Angus gave Bryn an awkward wave.

“Call me tonight before you go to sleep,” she said.

He smiled, but he didn’t make any promises before he took off.

Bryn offered me a cheek, cool as marble, to kiss. Tracy offered nothing. After the river of tears when the news came about Gabe, she had withdrawn into a stillness that bordered on the catatonic. Her virginal dress, her white-lace mantilla, and her five-mile stare made her look as forlorn as an abandoned bride. I touched her hand. “Take care of yourself,” I said.

“She’s in good hands.” In a gesture that was surprisingly matey, Claudia draped her arm around her sister-in-law’s shoulder. “You’ve been skimming the trees for a while, kiddo,” she said. “It was only a matter of time before you crashed. It’ll be better now that the wedding’s over.”

“It will never be better,” Tracy said flatly.

Claudia rolled her eyes. “Of course it will. Nothing is forever, although I must admit it wouldn’t take too many days like this to make a dozen. Xanax moments from dawn till dusk.”

My family’s ride home was another Xanax moment. The snow was heavy enough to make me grateful that a professional driver was at the wheel, but the novelty of riding in a limo had passed for my children, and as we approached our street, the air was heavy with things unsaid. Taylor broke the silence with an utterance that, even for her, was cryptic. “I eat my peas with honey,” she said. “I’ve done it all my life. It makes the peas taste funny, but it keeps them on my knife.” Her brother, who was obviously dealing with some major personal issues, glared at her.

Taylor ignored him. “Last night at dinner I dropped a forkful of peas on the floor, and Mr. Leventhal said that poem – I guess he wanted to make me feel better.”

“That was kind,” I said mechanically.

“I liked him a lot.” Taylor was earnest. “He was …” As she searched for
le mot juste
we turned onto our street. There was a delivery truck in front of our house and as soon as Taylor spotted it, her elegy for Gabe short-circuited. “Look at that,” she said pointing to the towering plastic-shrouded tree the driver was attempting to prop against the door. “We won, Jo! You didn’t think we had a chance, but we did.”

“You’re a lucky girl,” the limo driver said.

“I know it,” Taylor said. “Do you want to come in and see it without the bag?”

“I’d better stay on the job,” he said. “But thanks. You have a happy holiday now.”

“Oh we will,” Taylor said.

Angus and the delivery man wrestled the tree into the house. It was huge, and the moment Angus ripped the plastic away, I knew that God was a Monty Python fan. My daughter’s dream had almost, but not quite, come true. Snowfall at Swan Lake had gone to another lucky home; our win was a flocked plantation pine whose boughs groaned under the weight of dozens of ceramic cherubim and seraphim. Each of the little figures was personalized with the face of a celebrity who had joined the Heavenly Host: Princess Di, George Harrison, Martin Luther King, Dale Earnhardt, Pierre Trudeau, Janis Joplin, Mahatma Gandhi, Buddy Holly, John Lennon, Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, and an entire phalanx of Kennedys. There was a card tied to one of the branches. Angus took it down and read aloud, “I am called Angels Among Us, and I am a reminder that the great ones never die.” Angus rolled his eyes. “That was the tree talking,” he said. “Just in case you thought it couldn’t get any worse …”

An hour later, we had slipped out of our wedding finery and back into our everyday lives. Taylor was in her room playing with her cats, Bruce and Benny, and I was in my room wrapping a couple of last-minute gifts and trying to get into the spirit. Except for the persistent thump of Angus’s stereo, the house was quiet. When the phone rang, the fact that Jill was on the other end of the line didn’t set off any bells.

“I need some clothes,” she said.

“Don’t we all?” I said. “But I thought you were planning to change back at the hotel.”

“I need something now. There’s blood all over this dress.”

In a microsecond, I rocketed into full panic mode. “Are you all right?” I said.

“It’s not my blood,” she said. “It’s his.”

“Whose? Jill, what’s happened?”

“There was an accident.” Her voice was razor-edged with hysteria. “I’ve got to get this dress off, Jo. It’s covered in blood.”

“I’ll be right there,” I said. “Do you need a doctor?”

“It’s too late for a doctor,” she said. “I need clothes … Please, Jo. Just bring me some clothes.”

I ran upstairs, jammed fresh clothing, socks, and shoes into a backpack, grabbed a towel and a bar of soap, and dashed down to the kitchen where Angus was making himself a grilled cheese sandwich.

“They should give you real food at a wedding,” he said without looking up.

My heart felt as if it was pounding out of my chest, but I tried to keep the mood light. “When you get married, we’ll have the reception at the Between the Buns Sports Bar,” I said. “Look, why don’t you make a sandwich for Taylor too? I have to go out.”

My son shot me a look. “In this weather?”

“It’s important.” I gave him a one-armed hug. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, but I’ve got the cell if you need me.”

Taylor intercepted me in the front hall. “Where are you going?”

“Just to run an errand,” I said. “Angus is here.”

“Wait!” Taylor fell to her knees and plugged in her tree. “You’ve got to see this.” In the blink of an eye, a hundred twinkling stars lit the celebrity cherubs, and somewhere deep in the tree’s flocked heart a computer chip began to play “The Way We Were.”

“You always say things work out the way they’re supposed to,” she said, sighing contentedly. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever.”

I kissed the top of her head. “Hold that thought,” I said.

Albert Street was tough sledding. Stuck behind a snowplough, I grew white-knuckled with frustration and fear. As I crawled in the vehicle’s wake, I replayed my conversation with Jill. No matter how I construed her words, they signalled trouble. There was more cause for anxiety in the outside world. Except for my Volvo and the snowplough, every vehicle headed south on Albert Street had a member of the Regina City Police in the driver’s seat. When we came to the turnoff for the gallery, I tensed, hoping against hope the squad cars would continue south, towards a disaster that had nothing to do with anyone I loved. But as the caravan turned east onto the road that led to the MacKenzie, I knew that the longest night of the year had just gotten longer.

The visitors’ parking lot was so choked with snow that I didn’t even give it a second glance. I parked my Volvo in the first available staff space and headed towards the gallery. The lobby was blue with uniformed cops. I took a deep breath and forged ahead as if I had a right to be there. Adopting an air of entitlement was a trick I’d learned from Angus, and that night it got me through the front doors. Fate – benevolent or malevolent – intervened immediately. The first officer I ran into in the lobby was Alex Kequahtooway. He was a man with enviable control of his emotions, but I knew every inch of his body, and I recognized the throb in his temple as a sign that he was suffering.

The impulse to reach out to him was almost overwhelming, but remembering the pain of our breakup, I kept my hands jammed in my pockets. “What happened?” I said.

“Evan MacLeish is dead. His carotid artery was slit with the knife they used to cut the cake – some kind of hunting knife.”

“It’s called an ulu,” I said.

“Well now it’s called a murder weapon,” Alex said dryly.

“Do you know who did it?”

I could almost hear the clang as he shut me out. “This is a police investigation, Joanne.”

I slid off my backpack. “I have some clothes in here for Jill. Can I take them to her?”

“I’ll check to see if the forensic guys have everything they need from her.”

“Is she a suspect?”

Alex started towards the elevator. Before he touched the button, he turned back to me. “You might as well come up with me.”

We stepped into the elevator together. “Is the body still up here?” I asked.

Alex’s surprise was genuine. “Why would it be here? Evan MacLeish was killed in that snow fort on the east lawn.”

“What was he doing out there?” I asked.

Alex shot me a withering glance. “Getting murdered,” he said.

When the elevator doors opened, the sight that greeted us was eye-popping: Martha Stewart meets “
COPS
.” The area in which Jill and Evan had cut the cake was cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. The Rainbow Dancers were still strutting their stuff on the top tier of Kevin Hynd’s brilliantly inspired confection, but the glowing cloth on which the cake-tray sat was dark with traceries of fingerprint powder. Guests who had decided to stay until the last drop of Cuvee Paradis Brut had been drunk clutched individual cake boxes and talked uneasily to note-taking cops.

My eyes darted around the room, seeking Jill. Finally, I spotted her sitting on a banquette in the shadows at the far end of the gallery. On one side of her was a female police officer, on the other was Kevin Hynd. The cop, the bride, and the pastry chef – even on a night that was adding new dimension to the term “surreal,” it was a bizarre grouping.

No one stopped me as I walked towards them, but when I got close, the sweet smell of blood almost gagged me. I kept moving and when Jill held out her arms, I moved to embrace her.

“Stand back.” The police officer’s voice was not unkind. “There’s a fair amount of blood on her dress.”

I slipped off my backpack and held it out to the officer. “I’ve brought some fresh clothes for her. Can she go somewhere to change?”

“Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,” Jill said, and the deadness in her voice chilled me.

“I’ll check with the inspector,” said the officer, a rosy brunette whose badge read Maria Ciarniello.

I waited until Officer Ciarniello was out of earshot, then I turned to Jill. “You need a lawyer,” I said.

Kevin shrugged. “She has a lawyer. Me.”

I took in his Jerry Garcia beard and white caterer’s jacket. “Well, why the hell not?” I said.

Amazingly, Jill began to laugh. She laughed until the tears streamed down her face. When her laughter ended in a hiccupping sob, she looked around. “I don’t suppose either of you has a Kleenex.”

“I do,” I said, handing one to her.

The young police officer came back. “Inspector Kequahtooway says you can change, but I’ll need to be with you so I can bag your gown for forensics.”

Jill nodded wearily. “You can bring in the whole police force if you have to. Just let me get the blood off me.”

Another cop came over and handed Officer Ciarniello a plastifilm bag eerily like the bag that had held Taylor’s Angels Among Us tree. “Let’s go,” she said.

The four of us went down in the elevator together. Officer Ciarniello followed us into the bathroom; Kevin Hynd stationed himself outside.

The largest of the women’s restrooms at the gallery had two parts: a small area in which women could change their babies and, through another door, the usual stalls, sinks, and mirrors. Maria Ciarniello positioned herself in the doorway that separated the two rooms and slid on a pair of surgical gloves. Jill turned her back to the mirrors, unzipped her beautiful blood-stained dress, and let it fall. Like a zealous salesperson in a top-of-the-line shop, Officer Ciarniello caught the gown before it hit the floor and placed it in the evidence bag. There was a spot of blood on Jill’s strapless long-line bra. When she noticed it, she began fumbling with the hooks on the back.