The legacy, p.16
The Legacy, page 16
Ms. Hall called not long after Zack left to say that she was free for the next hour and that she liked to see people’s faces when she was talking to them. She asked if I was familiar with FaceTime; I said yes, and she said she would call me. Within seconds, Alma Hall and I were on our computer screens, face to face.
I hadn’t thought much about Ms. Hall’s appearance, but it was a surprise. She was deeply tanned and sharp-featured with platinum hair pulled back into a tight bun, shrewd pale-blue eyes and lipstick and nail polish that matched her very revealing cerise halter top.
“Thanks for arranging the call,” I said. “I like your top. It must be warmer at Anglin Lake than it is here in Regina.”
“Probably not,” Alma said, “but from the Victoria Day weekend to September 22, I’m a short shorts and halter top gal.” She had the husky contralto of a two-pack-a-day smoker. “But we’re not here to exchange weather reports. In your message, you said you wanted to talk about Rebecca Woodrow. So let’s get down to brass tacks. I don’t mean to be rude, but what’s your interest in this, Ms. Shreve?”
“I have a feeling we may be spending a fair amount of virtual time together,” I said, “so please call me Joanne.” After I explained our relationship with Steven Brooks and our concern that he and Rebecca Woodrow had both disappeared, I gave Alma a precis of the discussion Zack and I had with Patrick O’Keefe.
“So what was the upshot of this discussion?” Alma said.
“The police are now involved, and the private investigators my husband’s law firm uses are actively searching for both Rebecca and Steven.”
Alma took a cigarette from a pack of Benson & Hedges and lit it. Her fingernails were daggers. “What does your new daughter-in-law think of her father?”
“Steven was never a presence in her life,” I said.
Alma took a long thoughtful drag and exhaled. “She was lucky.”
“She was. Steven Brooks is a complex man.”
“A complex man with no moral compass,” Alma said. “That can be a deadly combination.”
“It was certainly deadly for Laurel Woodrow,” I said.
“So you know what happened between Laurel and Steven Brooks.”
“I do,” I said. “And it makes me sick.”
Alma didn’t respond. For several unnervingly long beats she simply stared at the screen. “I believe you,” she said finally. “Faces don’t lie. What Brooks did to Laurel makes me sick too. I knew he was using her. I tried to warn her, but Laurel wouldn’t hear a word against him. She was my closest friend, but I came very close to losing her friendship. After she died, I found a novel I’d loaned to her in a stack of books on my front porch. There was a note tucked inside. ‘None of this is Steven’s fault. He did everything he could do to help me, but the proverb is right: you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Steven is blameless, and he’ll be alone. He will need your friendship, Alma. Reach out to him.’”
“And you did not reach out,” I said.
Alma’s laugh was short and derisive. “That son-of-a-sea-biscuit was gone the next morning. He’d cleared everything out of his cabin. The property was listed for sale the following weekend.” Alma stubbed out her cigarette. “Anglin Lake had nothing more to offer Steven Brooks.”
I waited while she lit another cigarette. Neither of us seemed prepared to continue the conversation, but I knew I had to try. “I understand that revisiting these memories is painful for you,” I said. “However, I still have one question. Why didn’t you speak up when Steven Brooks published Medusa’s Fate as his own work?”
“I was planning to. I knew I’d need someone to guide me along the path to making the truth public, so I consulted a lawyer in Prince Albert. He listened carefully to everything I said, then he told me I did not have a case. I had no proof that Brooks stole Laurel’s manuscript. Brooks had taken every scrap of paper from his cabin before he left Anglin. By the time Medusa’s Fate was published, Laurel had been dead two years. Her cabin had new owners, and her papers had been sent to a daughter who hadn’t acknowledged Laurel’s existence in years. I had no idea how to find the daughter, and I was convinced that if she had received her mother’s papers, she would have destroyed them.
“With no proof, the lawyer in Prince Albert told me if I decided to go ahead with the case, Brooks’s publishers would have a team of lawyers who could keep me in court for years and my legal fees would bankrupt me.”
“So I did nothing,” she said. “And every morning I woke up hoping and praying that I could find a way to give Laurel the legacy she deserved.”
“And then along came Rebecca,” I said.
“Yes, along came Rebecca, and she not only had evidence that her grandmother had written both Medusa’s Fate and The Iron Bed of Procrustes, she was going to make the truth public on the day Steven Brooks: A Biography was published. And now Rebecca has disappeared.”
“Alma, we can’t give up now. Rebecca’s lawyer, Patrick O’Keefe, said that Rebecca sent him a photograph of her grandmother with a note saying ‘this is the woman for whom we’re going to find justice.’ It’s too late to save her life, but we can show that, even though she had been shamed and dismissed as worthless, Laurel Woodrow created two exquisite and powerful novels.”
“Which that son-of-a-sea-biscuit claims that he wrote,” Alma said. “How can Steven Brooks live with himself?”
When I saw the fire in her eyes, I understood the value of FaceTime. If we’d been in the same room, I would have moved closer to her, but we were separated by over four hundred kilometres. The best I could do was offer her words that seemed right for the moment. “Zack says that Steven is a selfish prick and a snivelling coward who ran away on his daughter’s wedding day because he couldn’t face the fact that the world would soon know the truth about him: that he’s a liar, a thief, a hack and a piece of shit.”
Alma’s laugh, deep, dry and tobacco-cured, was a wonder. “I like you, Joanne,” she said. “But I think your husband and I are birds of a feather.”
“I think that too,” I said. “Let’s stay in touch.”
“Wait,” Alma said. “I did try to do something to reveal the truth about what happened between Laurel and Steven. I’m ashamed to tell you this because what I did was juvenile and cowardly. I was convinced that Valentine Masluk, Steven’s biographer, would reveal the truth. Our library ordered an advance copy and as soon as the book arrived, I read it straight through.”
“And you noticed that Steven’s biographer devoted scant attention to the years between Steven’s disappointing third novel and the publication of Medusa.”
“I noticed, and I was livid. I was certain Valentine Masluk knew the full story and suppressed it, so I wrote emails to the person who was going to interview Mr. Masluk when the book was released and to the director of the School of Journalism, urging them to force Mr. Masluk to tell the full story.”
“So, you were 329ff,” I said.
Alma’s eyes were wide. “You knew,” she said. “Why didn’t the interviewer or the director do something?”
“I know you’ll find the answer unsatisfactory. I find it unsatisfactory too. The truth is that no one knew what to do. The interviewer is my son-in-law, and he did try to ask Valentine about that time, but Valentine refused to answer the question because he feared if he did Steven Brooks would harm himself. The head of the School of Journalism shared that fear.”
Alma lit a fresh Benson & Hedges and inhaled deeply. “Well, hell,” she said.
I smiled. “That’s exactly what my husband would say.”
* * *
It was half past ten when I left the house to go to Pawsitively Purrfect. I was in the mood for a leisurely morning, and that’s exactly what I got. I chose a large cart and began my stroll. I stocked up on desiccated liver and a product called P-Nuttier puppy treats. It was new to me, but I’d checked the label and noted that the peanut butter was xylitol-free, and the puppy on the package looked happy, so Scout had his rewards at the ready. I chose new dishes for our Bouviers’ food and water, new leashes and collars for both dogs and a Ezee-Sleep calming dog bed for Scout that I hoped would soothe him through his first days with us, and then one for Esme, who might end up in need of a little Ezee-Sleep herself. My final purchase would be kibble for the feral cats that lived in the warehouse district where we once lived; I was deciding whether I could fit three large bags of it into my cart when Kam Chau tapped me on the shoulder. “We really do have to stop meeting like this, Joanne,” he said.
“Pawsitively Purrfect does appear to be a magnet for us both,” I said. “We’re picking up our new puppy on Saturday, and I didn’t want Esme to feel left out when Scout gets that snazzy red collar and leash.”
“So Scout is the name of the new puppy,” Kam said.
“Zack’s choice, and we both like it,” I said. “How are Feng, Mary and Mr. Grant getting along?”
Kam grinned. “Surprisingly well. Feng was an only cat for five years, so her nose was out of joint for a while, and, of course, Mary and Mr. Grant had to adjust to a new owner, a new home and the presence of the lofty Madame Feng, but the three of them seemed to figure out that nobody was leaving so they might as well make the best of it. Cats are pragmatists.”
“I’ll text that piece of wisdom to Taylor,” I said. “She’s a great fan of cat lore. I always enjoy talking to you, Kam, and we never seem to have enough time for a real visit. Brewed Awakening is half a block away. Do you have time for coffee?”
“Absolutely. My treat though. I had a terrific time at Angus and Leah’s wedding, and that dinner was one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten.”
“I agree with you about the food,” I said. “But the bride’s aunts picked up the tab for the wedding and the reception. And I have a question that’s been nagging at me, so let’s make it Dutch treat.”
“Dutch it is.” Kam put two of the bags of cat kibble in his cart and slid the third into mine. After we’d paid for our purchases and carried them to our cars, we walked over to Brewed Awakening. The café wasn’t crowded, so we waited at the counter till our lattes were ready, split the bill and the tip and found a booth at the back.
When we’d settled in, Kam said, “I don’t have any new information on Rebecca Woodrow. Zack asked me to let him know about any developments. But I’ve heard nothing. Have you?”
“Just conjecture.”
“In that case, let’s get to your question.”
I sipped my Chai latte. “Mmm, good,” I said. “Now, my question is about Rainey Arcus. Charlie told Zack and me that you had doubts about signing Rainey on as a permanent member of the production team. He also said you seemed reluctant to explain the reason for your uneasiness about her …”
Kam looked sheepish. “That’s because I’m not sure my reason makes sense,” he said. “I like Rainey, and I’m sure Charlie told you what a great researcher she is.”
“He did. He said her research is not only thorough, it’s edited. Everything extraneous to the questions he might ask is winnowed out, and the material she gives him is interview ready. But Kam, Charlie also made it clear that he trusts your judgment absolutely. He knows you make solid decisions about the people who will work best with the production team, and he says it’s your call.”
Kam smiled and handed me a napkin. “There’s a tiny latte moustache above your upper lip that you might wish to blot,” he said.
I blotted and touched his hand. “Only a true friend would tell me that I have a latte moustache.”
“I’m glad I meet one of the criteria for qualifying as a true friend.”
“You meet all the criteria,” I said. “That’s why Zack, Charlie and I all value you. The only reason I’m pressing you about Rainey is because you don’t make judgments without a reason, and if there’s something Charlie D should know about Rainey, he should know it. Let’s start with a simple thing. Is your problem with Rainey a personality clash?”
Kam’s headshake was vehement. “No. We get along fine. In fact, our birthdays are the same day, October 23, and last fall, Rainey suggested we take each other out for dinner to celebrate. We went to that restaurant on Albert that is continually undergoing name changes —”
“I know the one you mean. The last time I was there it was the Fainting Goat, but whatever its name, the food has always been good.”
“And it was good the night we went there. Rainey made the reservations, and she must have alerted the person taking her reservation to the fact that this was a birthday celebration because there was a horoscope birthday book open to October 23 waiting for us on our table.”
“That was inspired,” I said.
Kam’s eyes brightened at the memory. “That book was not only inspired, it was a godsend.
“Rainey and I were work friends, and we didn’t know each other well enough to have a real conversation. We took turns reading to each other about what it means to be born on October 23. Joanne, did you know that Scorpio is the most intense member of the Zodiac, and that those born under the sign are able to see deeply into any given situation and cannot be fooled by the hidden motives of others?”
“I didn’t know that,” I said. “And our daughter Taylor’s birthday is November 11.”
“Smack dab in the middle of the sign.” Kam’s lips formed a fraction of a smile. “In that case, there’s a great deal that Taylor’s family members should know, for example, those born under the Scorpio sign always know exactly what’s going on, and they never forget someone who stood in their way.”
“Some of those characteristics really do sound like Taylor, but that last part sounds as if Scorpios are ruthless and our daughter is not ruthless. Neither are you.” I hesitated. “Kam, do you think Rainey is ruthless?”
Kam splayed his fingers on the table and regarded them thoughtfully. “I’ve never seen evidence of that, but I do know she’s secretive, and now we’re getting to the heart of my ‘problem’ with Rainey. When I took her home after our birthday dinner, I said that the evening had been fun, and I’d like to do it again. Rainey said that she’d like to spend time together again too, as long as I understood that our relationship could never be intimate.”
“A platonic relationship,” I said. “And you were okay with that?”
“I was. Particularly since she seemed to suggest she was committed to someone else. After our dinner date, Rainey and I went to a Halloween party together. We both hate costume parties, but the host was someone from MediaNation that we both like, so we went together.”
“And the two of you went as … ?”
“Lois Lane and Clark Kent covering Woodstock in 1969,” Kam said. “It was Rainey’s idea, and it was appealing. She and I were both journalists, and the concept of Lois and Clark in 1969 was clever. Rainey found a vintage clothing shop here that offered everything we needed, and we had fun shopping together. We both had work obligations, so we agreed to meet at the restaurant where the party was being held.”
I gave Kam an assessing look. “I’m trying to imagine you and Rainey in an acre of mud in upstate New York grooving to Janis Joplin.”
“The vintage costumes really did transform us,” Kam said. He drew a deep breath. “Joanne, Rainey’s appearance that night triggered a memory for me. I’d always had a sense that I’d seen her before or knew her from somewhere, but I could never figure out when or where.”
“And that night you remembered,” I said.
Kam nodded. “Yes, and that’s when my uneasiness started. When I’ve worked with Rainey, her hair has always been pulled back from her face in a bun or — I don’t know much about women’s hairstyles — just anchored back somehow. The night we went to the costume party as hippies, Rainey wore her hair loose, and it took my breath away. It’s almost waist length, white-blond and thick and shining.”
“Rainey wore her hair brushed back but loose when she was in my class,” I said. “And her hair really is gorgeous. It always made me think of a fairy tale princess’s.”
Kam sighed. “It’s unforgettable, and as soon as I saw Rainey’s hair the night of the costume party, I remembered where I’d seen her before. Do you recall that piece Charlie D did on our show about The Pen ?”
“Of course, The Pen was the book the inmates at Prince Albert wrote. Charlie told us that piece was so well received that you were going to use it again as one of the show’s summer ‘best ofs.’”
“And we did, and it was a hit again. Rainey came to me with a pitch for a follow-up story about the man teaching the class. She said he had committed heinous crimes, but he was now working to reclaim his life,” Kam paused. “Joanne, Rainey is thoroughly professional about her work. If some of the research she presents doesn’t work for our show, she accepts the decision. But she was passionate about the story of the inmate trying to reclaim his life. I told her it sounded promising, but that our show doesn’t do advocacy. She and I went back and forth about it for a few minutes, but she accepted my decision.
“Rainey had not mentioned a name in her pitch for the man working to reclaim his life, but in the research she gave us on The Pen, she identified the man behind the project as Tom Kelsoe. I went to the files and found our predecessor Nationtv’s coverage of the Kelsoe trial. In all the footage of Kelsoe entering or exiting the courthouse, Rainey is there, hair flowing, wearing one of those bulky knit jackets.”
“A Cowichan sweater,” I said.
“Right, and it struck me as odd, which is why her image stuck with me,” Kam said. “By the time of Kelsoe’s trial, nobody still wore those sweaters. Anyway, in the videos, Rainey seems to be very intent on Kelsoe. In one of the clips, he notices her, smiles and waves.”
