The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn by Gail Bowen Page B

camera, I noticed more than one woman in iridescent sequins taking note.
    “I don’t usually walk around like the inquiring photographer,” Sylvie said, “but I thought Howard might like some pictures of his party.”
    Manda smoothed the material of her dress over her stomach. “He’ll be thrilled. Having Sylvie O’Keefe take your party pictures is like having Pavarotti sing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ right to you.”
    Sylvie smiled. “Thanks,” she said, “but Howard has it coming. He’s a good guy.” She knelt so that Manda Evanson was in her lens. “Stay exactly as you are, Manda. Don’t smile. Just be. If Frida Kahlo had ever painted a Madonna, she would have looked like you.”
    Face glowing with love, Craig Evanson looked down at his wife. The happiest man in the world.
    When Tess Malone came in, the temperature at the head table dipped ten degrees. We all knew she’d orchestrated the demonstration outside. She went straight to where Howard was sitting. That was like her: confront the problem, no matter how painful. She was wearing a satin dress in a pewtershade that made her tightly corsetted little body look more bullet-like than ever.
    She sat in the empty chair beside him, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and began. “I know how angry you must be, Howard, but I won’t apologize. I like you and I respect you, but this dinner was a good chance for us. Never miss a chance. That’s what you taught me when we were in government. If the shoe was on the other foot, you wouldn’t have passed up this evening, and you know it.”
    For a moment, he stared at her. Then he started to laugh. “You’re right,” he said. “I wouldn’t have passed up a chance like this. Anyway, for once, your God Squad doesn’t seem to have done any harm.”
    Tess looked at him levelly. “In the spirit of the evening, I’ll ignore that.”
    “Good,” Howard said. “Now let me get you an ashtray before you ignite the tablecloth.”
    We all relaxed, and for a while it was a nice evening. The hip of beef was tender, and the wine was plentiful. Just as dessert was being served, Tess’s protesters began pounding their drums in a heartbeat rhythm, and she went out and told them they’d done a terrific job and they could call it a night.
    By the time the last dish was cleared away, and I stood to announce that the speeches were starting, the room was warmed by a sense of community and shared purpose. The new premier’s remarks about Howard were witty and mercifully brief, and the other speakers followed his lead. Sanity all around.
    And then Maureen Gault joined the party. The speeches had just finished, and there had been a spontaneous singing of “Auld Lang Syne.” People were getting up from their tables to visit or to head to the bar for drinks. Our table was breaking up too. The new premier and his wife had another function to attend, and they were already headed towardsthe doors that would take them out of the ballroom. Manda and Craig Evanson were standing, saying their goodbyes to Tess. Howard was talking to a group that had driven in from Stewart Valley. Jane O’Keefe was leaning across her brother-in-law, saying something to her sister. I couldn’t hear her words, but she didn’t look as if she’d cooled off much. A waiter came with a note in Hilda’s bold hand: “I think it’s time to revisit Harold Town. Don’t wait up. H.” It seemed like a good time to do some visiting myself. I was standing, looking for familiar faces in the crowd, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and Maureen Gault was behind me. She was smiling.
    “I thought I’d give you a chance to apologize,” she said.
    “For what?” I said.
    “For being rude when I came to your house.” She moved towards me. Close up, her perfume was overpowering. “Apologize, Joanne.”
    “Are you crazy?” I said.
    People at the tables closest to us fell silent, and my words rang out, bell clear.
    Maureen Gault’s pale eyes