The Early Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn by Gail Bowen Page B
Authors: Gail Bowen
Tags: Mystery
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Robin Williams. The guy at 7-Eleven said it’s hilarious. And there were a bunch of phone calls for you but Angus took the messages so you’ll probably have to wait for people to call back. Anyway, here they are.” He handed me some slips of paper and grinned a little. “And that television guy – the one you decked yesterday – Rick Spenser?”
I shuddered.
“Right. Well, a delivery man came with some flowers he sent you.” He gave me the thumbs-up sign and closed the door behind him. He had not mentioned the word
murder
. It was a delicacy I was grateful for. I sat on the bed, took a sip of tea and looked through the messages Angus had taken.
There were two surprises: Eve Boychuk and Soren Eames had phoned. I called Eve first. She sounded composed, and asked me to go to the funeral with her. She didn’t, she said, know who else to ask. She and Roma Boychuk, Andy’s mother, hadn’t spoken in years. “And that,” she said wearily, “leaves only Carey and, of course, you, Jo.” She didn’t explain the “of course.” I said I would go with her. She said she’d get back to me.
Soren Eames, sounding tentative but friendly, said he just wanted to make sure I’d gotten home safely. I thanked him and told him that the next time he was in the city, I’d be pleased if he’d call me. I hung up, certain I would hear from him again. The lady whom I’d beaten out for the cab at the bus depot didn’t call, but I was two for three on my morning encounters. Things were definitely looking up.
There was a call from a detective named Millar Millard of the city police. Detective Millard was out of the office but he would be in touch with me, said a young woman namedIronstar, who added that one winter she had taken a class in human justice my husband had taught at the university.
And there were phone calls from friends. Ali Sutherland, who had been my doctor and my friend when Ian died, had called to send love and condolences. And there were invitations to dinner from two of the people in this world I would under most circumstances have liked to have dinner with – Howard Dowhanuik and Dave Micklejohn. I turned them both down. They would have talked about Andy’s murder, and I couldn’t face it. That night, nothing could compare with the prospect of sitting in my cotton nightgown at our kitchen table, eating Mieka’s pork chops something and chocolate mousse, then curling up and watching a movie some guy at the 7-Eleven said was hilarious. Safe in my house, I could vanquish the word
murder
.
When I padded downstairs in my nightie and bare feet, I felt virtuous – all those phone calls answered – and I felt hungry. What Mieka was cooking smelled of ginger and garlic. As I entered the kitchen, she was putting a loaf of sourdough bread into the oven to warm, and Angus was chopping vegetables. When Mieka told me to fix myself a drink and check out the dining-room table, I kept walking.
The table was set with the knives and forks reversed – Angus again – but in the centre of the table was a crystal pitcher so exquisitely cut I knew it was Waterford. It was filled with gerbera daisies. Half were that vibrant pink we used to call American beauty, and the others were rosy orange. The late summer sunshine poured in the window, turning the facets of the crystal to fire. It was a centrepiece from a Van Gogh picnic. There was an envelope propped against my water glass. Inside, on hotel stationery, was a note from Rick Spenser: “On November 22, 1963, Aldous Huxley died. His death will always be merely a footnote to the Kennedy assassination. Thank you, my dear Mrs. Kilbourn,for keeping me from becoming a footnote. I have never liked seeing my name in small print.” It was signed “RS.” I called the hotel and left a message thanking him.
All things considered, it was a happy evening. Mieka’s dinner was great, and after we ate I made myself a gin and tonic and plugged in the fan and we all sat and watched the
I shuddered.
“Right. Well, a delivery man came with some flowers he sent you.” He gave me the thumbs-up sign and closed the door behind him. He had not mentioned the word
murder
. It was a delicacy I was grateful for. I sat on the bed, took a sip of tea and looked through the messages Angus had taken.
There were two surprises: Eve Boychuk and Soren Eames had phoned. I called Eve first. She sounded composed, and asked me to go to the funeral with her. She didn’t, she said, know who else to ask. She and Roma Boychuk, Andy’s mother, hadn’t spoken in years. “And that,” she said wearily, “leaves only Carey and, of course, you, Jo.” She didn’t explain the “of course.” I said I would go with her. She said she’d get back to me.
Soren Eames, sounding tentative but friendly, said he just wanted to make sure I’d gotten home safely. I thanked him and told him that the next time he was in the city, I’d be pleased if he’d call me. I hung up, certain I would hear from him again. The lady whom I’d beaten out for the cab at the bus depot didn’t call, but I was two for three on my morning encounters. Things were definitely looking up.
There was a call from a detective named Millar Millard of the city police. Detective Millard was out of the office but he would be in touch with me, said a young woman namedIronstar, who added that one winter she had taken a class in human justice my husband had taught at the university.
And there were phone calls from friends. Ali Sutherland, who had been my doctor and my friend when Ian died, had called to send love and condolences. And there were invitations to dinner from two of the people in this world I would under most circumstances have liked to have dinner with – Howard Dowhanuik and Dave Micklejohn. I turned them both down. They would have talked about Andy’s murder, and I couldn’t face it. That night, nothing could compare with the prospect of sitting in my cotton nightgown at our kitchen table, eating Mieka’s pork chops something and chocolate mousse, then curling up and watching a movie some guy at the 7-Eleven said was hilarious. Safe in my house, I could vanquish the word
murder
.
When I padded downstairs in my nightie and bare feet, I felt virtuous – all those phone calls answered – and I felt hungry. What Mieka was cooking smelled of ginger and garlic. As I entered the kitchen, she was putting a loaf of sourdough bread into the oven to warm, and Angus was chopping vegetables. When Mieka told me to fix myself a drink and check out the dining-room table, I kept walking.
The table was set with the knives and forks reversed – Angus again – but in the centre of the table was a crystal pitcher so exquisitely cut I knew it was Waterford. It was filled with gerbera daisies. Half were that vibrant pink we used to call American beauty, and the others were rosy orange. The late summer sunshine poured in the window, turning the facets of the crystal to fire. It was a centrepiece from a Van Gogh picnic. There was an envelope propped against my water glass. Inside, on hotel stationery, was a note from Rick Spenser: “On November 22, 1963, Aldous Huxley died. His death will always be merely a footnote to the Kennedy assassination. Thank you, my dear Mrs. Kilbourn,for keeping me from becoming a footnote. I have never liked seeing my name in small print.” It was signed “RS.” I called the hotel and left a message thanking him.
All things considered, it was a happy evening. Mieka’s dinner was great, and after we ate I made myself a gin and tonic and plugged in the fan and we all sat and watched the
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