The Early Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn by Gail Bowen Page A
Authors: Gail Bowen
Tags: Mystery
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“It would have been kinder if I’d used a bullet.” The voice was tight with anguish. “Why can’t we go back? Oh, God, Soren, why can’t we go back?”
Then nothing except the blood singing in my ears and the knowledge that the voice I was listening to was Andy Boychuk’s.
I turned and walked to the double doors of the wing where the voice was coming from. When I came to the office marked Soren Eames, I didn’t bother to knock. Out of breath and close to hysteria, I opened the door.
There wasn’t much to see – a slender man with a receding hairline and on the desk in front of him a portable tape recorder clicking metallically to signal that the tape had ended. I don’t know what I’d expected. I was sick with anger and disappointment.
I went over and pulled the tape out of the recorder. I had a hundred like it myself: small, cheap tapes that Andy used, when he was driving, to record an idea or his impression of a meeting or sometimes just the thoughts he had driving late at night across the prairie.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
Soren Eames’s voice was so low I could barely hear it. “He gave it to me.”
“What’s it supposed to mean? All that about ‘the right thing to do’ and using a bullet.”
Soren Eames looked steadily at me, but he didn’t answer.
My voice was shrill in the quiet room. “I asked you a question. Why have you got that tape? What’s it all about?”
“It’s a private communication.” He stood and walked over to me. “I’d be grateful if you’d leave me alone now.” His voice was gentle. He took my arm and led me down a corridor, through a door and into the light. For a few seconds, Soren Eames and I stood on the threshold looking into one another’s faces with the intensity of lovers. I don’t know what we were looking for – clues, I guess, some sort of insight into what had suddenly gone so wrong. Finally, I turned and began to walk down the path toward the highway.
“Mrs. Kilbourn,” he called after me, “when you’re working through all this, try to remember that you’re not the onlyone. Other people loved Andy, too.” It was only later that I realized he had called me by name.
There was one cab waiting outside the Regina bus depot, and I beat out an old lady for it. I’m not proud of that, but there it is. As the cab pulled away, I looked out the rear window. She was standing on the corner shaking her bag at me.
It was two-thirty when the taxi pulled up in front of my house on Eastlake Avenue, less than twenty-four hours since Andy’s death. Our dogs greeted me hopefully, and I remembered that I hadn’t taken them for their run that morning.
“Sorry, ladies,” I said, “it’s shower time. You can come up and bark your complaints through the bathroom door.” They did. By 2:35 I was in the shower, and by 3:00, clean and cool in a fresh cotton nightgown, I was lying on top of my bedspread fast asleep.
It was late in the afternoon when I woke up. The room was full of shadows, and my son Peter was standing by the bed with a glass of iced tea. He is a handsome boy, dark like his father with the Irish good looks all the Kilbourns have. His sister, Mieka, thinks it’s a crime that she looks like me: “blond and bland” are her exact words. She’s right, but Peter carries his own burdens. At sixteen, he is as shy as Mieka and my younger boy, Angus, are outgoing. The political life with its endless rooms full of strangers has always been torture for him, yet he has walked into those rooms and offered his hand without grumbling. He is wonderfully kind with our dogs, with his sister and brother and with me. The tea was just the kind of thing he would do.
He sat on the edge of my bed. “Mieka’s down there making dinner. It looks kind of gross but it smells okay.”
“What’s she making?”
“Pork chops something and chocolate mousse.”
“Wow.”
He smiled. “Right, and Angus and I rented a movie for you. Something with
Then nothing except the blood singing in my ears and the knowledge that the voice I was listening to was Andy Boychuk’s.
I turned and walked to the double doors of the wing where the voice was coming from. When I came to the office marked Soren Eames, I didn’t bother to knock. Out of breath and close to hysteria, I opened the door.
There wasn’t much to see – a slender man with a receding hairline and on the desk in front of him a portable tape recorder clicking metallically to signal that the tape had ended. I don’t know what I’d expected. I was sick with anger and disappointment.
I went over and pulled the tape out of the recorder. I had a hundred like it myself: small, cheap tapes that Andy used, when he was driving, to record an idea or his impression of a meeting or sometimes just the thoughts he had driving late at night across the prairie.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
Soren Eames’s voice was so low I could barely hear it. “He gave it to me.”
“What’s it supposed to mean? All that about ‘the right thing to do’ and using a bullet.”
Soren Eames looked steadily at me, but he didn’t answer.
My voice was shrill in the quiet room. “I asked you a question. Why have you got that tape? What’s it all about?”
“It’s a private communication.” He stood and walked over to me. “I’d be grateful if you’d leave me alone now.” His voice was gentle. He took my arm and led me down a corridor, through a door and into the light. For a few seconds, Soren Eames and I stood on the threshold looking into one another’s faces with the intensity of lovers. I don’t know what we were looking for – clues, I guess, some sort of insight into what had suddenly gone so wrong. Finally, I turned and began to walk down the path toward the highway.
“Mrs. Kilbourn,” he called after me, “when you’re working through all this, try to remember that you’re not the onlyone. Other people loved Andy, too.” It was only later that I realized he had called me by name.
There was one cab waiting outside the Regina bus depot, and I beat out an old lady for it. I’m not proud of that, but there it is. As the cab pulled away, I looked out the rear window. She was standing on the corner shaking her bag at me.
It was two-thirty when the taxi pulled up in front of my house on Eastlake Avenue, less than twenty-four hours since Andy’s death. Our dogs greeted me hopefully, and I remembered that I hadn’t taken them for their run that morning.
“Sorry, ladies,” I said, “it’s shower time. You can come up and bark your complaints through the bathroom door.” They did. By 2:35 I was in the shower, and by 3:00, clean and cool in a fresh cotton nightgown, I was lying on top of my bedspread fast asleep.
It was late in the afternoon when I woke up. The room was full of shadows, and my son Peter was standing by the bed with a glass of iced tea. He is a handsome boy, dark like his father with the Irish good looks all the Kilbourns have. His sister, Mieka, thinks it’s a crime that she looks like me: “blond and bland” are her exact words. She’s right, but Peter carries his own burdens. At sixteen, he is as shy as Mieka and my younger boy, Angus, are outgoing. The political life with its endless rooms full of strangers has always been torture for him, yet he has walked into those rooms and offered his hand without grumbling. He is wonderfully kind with our dogs, with his sister and brother and with me. The tea was just the kind of thing he would do.
He sat on the edge of my bed. “Mieka’s down there making dinner. It looks kind of gross but it smells okay.”
“What’s she making?”
“Pork chops something and chocolate mousse.”
“Wow.”
He smiled. “Right, and Angus and I rented a movie for you. Something with
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