The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn by Gail Bowen Page A

Taylor is adopted,” I said. “Her mother was Sally Love.”
    Sylvie’s eyes widened. “Of course. I’d forgotten. Sally’s work was brilliant,” she said.
    “It was,” I agreed. “That’s one reason I’m happy Taylor’s spending some time around you. I think being with another artist can give Taylor a link with her real mother.”
    Sylvie leaned towards me. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
    Before I had a chance to answer, there was an explosion of laughter at the other end of the table. Howard was in the middle of a story about a rancher he’d acted for in a lawsuit against a manufacturer of pressurized cylinders. The rancher’s semen tank had sprung a leak. Like Onan, his seed had been wasted on the ground, but the rancher wasn’t waiting for God’s judgement. He hired Howard and took the case to court.
    As I turned to listen, Howard was recounting his summation for the jury. It was funny, but it was crude, and at the next table a smartly dressed man with silver hair and a disapproving mouth turned to glare at him. Howard smiled at the man, then, still smiling, leaned towards me. “I make it a policy never to get into a fight with a guy whose mouth is smaller than a chicken’s asshole.”
    The pianist segued into “Thanks for the Memories,” and I stood up. Howard looked at me questioningly. “It’s time to get out of here,” I said. “Some cracks are starting to appear in your guest of honour persona.”
    We finished our drinks, and headed for the lobby. Gary Stephens was just coming up the steps from the side door, and he joined us.
    “Sorry I’m late, babe,” he said to Sylvie. She looked at him without interest, and I wondered how often she’d heard that entrance line. But Jane O’Keefe was interested. Her grey eyes burned the space between herself and her brother-in-law. “You’re a real bastard, Gary,” she said. Then she turned her back to him and started towards the cloakroom. We followed her and dropped off our coats, then we took the elevator upstairs to the ballroom.
    The crowd in the upstairs hall was surprisingly young. Many of the men and women who were now deputy ministers or People on Significant Career Paths had been having their retainers adjusted and watching “The Brady Bunch” when Howard Dowhanuik became premier, but tonight that didn’t seem to matter. Our party’s first year back in government was going well, and there seemed to be a consensus that we had something to celebrate. In the ballroom, a string quartet played Beatles tunes, the crystal chandelier blazed with light, and silvery helium-filled balloons drifted above every table set for eight. It was party time.
    Hilda looked around the room happily. “It’s everything Howard deserves,” she said. “Now I’d better find my place.” She lowered her voice. “Joanne, I’m sitting with a man I met at the art gallery last Sunday. If we continue to enjoy one another’s company, I might not go home with you. My new friend tells me he has an original Harold Town in his apartment.”
    “But you hate Harold Town.”
    Hilda raised an eyebrow. “Well, there was no need to tell my friend that.”
    I laughed. “Let me know if you need a ride.”
    “I will,” she said. “Now, you’d better get over to the head table. Howard likes people to be punctual.”
    Manda and Craig Evanson were already in their places. Manda was wearing a blue Mexican wedding dress, scoop-necked and loose fitting to accommodate the swell of her pregnancy. Her dark hair, parted in the middle, fell loose to her shoulders. She was very beautiful.
    Sylvie stopped in front of Manda, took out her camera, and began checking the light with a gauge. As always, Sylvie seemed to have dressed with no thought for what other women might be wearing, and as always she seemed to have chosen just the right thing. Tonight, it was a pinstriped suit the colour of café au lait, and a creamy silk shirt. As she moved around the table, adjusting her