Zack met the seven dwarves at his office on Saturday morning. As he’d predicted, they had all received envelopes in their mailbox the day before, and they were all eager to talk. Four of the wives had opened the cards, but the men were all trial lawyers, skilled at turning the cube of reality, and they had convinced the women in their lives that the cards were some kind of sick joke. When Zack told them what I’d learned at Nighthawks, they agreed to a man that a meeting was in order.
I had my own meeting. As soon as Zack left, I called Vera Wang. Our conversation got off to a rocky start when I announced myself as Joanne Shreve.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“We met at Ed Mariani’s last week,” I said. “Ed introduced you as Joanne Kilbourn.”
“Kilbourn was my name before I remarried. I still use it professionally.”
“Is your husband Zachary Shreve?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. “That must be interesting,” she said finally.
“It is,” I said. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
“I was just going off in search of black pansies,” she said. “But that can wait.”
“Dutch Growers has some,” I said. “I was planning to go out there after I talked to you. I’d be happy to pick up a flat of pansies and drop them by your house.”
“Good. I can answer your questions then,” she said.
“I’ll be there within an hour,” I said. “As you pointed out in our previous meeting, time is money.”
Vera met me out front and led me through a side gate into her backyard. It took my breath away. Her street was resolutely suburban – with well-kept split-level homes and landscaping that was mature, pleasing, and unexceptionable – but her yard was a work of art. The elements of rock, water, trees, and flowers had been arranged with an eye to proportion and variety, and the result was an intimate space that conveyed a sense of balance and harmony. We walked slowly around the garden, with Vera pointing out the shape of a particular tree, the way in which the reflecting pool had been positioned to catch the sunrise, and the pattern of the stones on the footpath. As she had been at Ed’s, she was dressed in the softest of greys, and again she was wearing gloves. She never removed them. We had tea by the koi pond, and as soon as she’d poured, Vera got down to business.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
I gazed at her garden. “This is a place of such beauty,” I said. “It feels wrong to bring ugliness here.”
Vera bent to watch her koi. “Ugliness paid for this beauty, Joanne. What’s your question?”
“What do you know about Jason Brodnitz?”
“Two things,” she said. “He was into rough sex, and after his career dealing with legitimate clients failed, he approached a number of high-end call girls about acting as their investment counsellor.”
“What kind of man is he?” I asked.
“He’s weak,” Vera said. “Apparently, the need for rough sex didn’t come from his childhood the way most of these behaviours do. It came to him late.”
“After his marriage failed.”
Vera smiled. “You are a romantic. Actually, it was after his business failed. I’d retired by then, but, of course, one stays in touch.”
“Was he a client of Cristal’s?”
“He couldn’t have afforded her. At least not at the beginning. Cristal’s rates were high and she insisted on a minimum two-hour booking. She wasn’t a girl who gave blow jobs in an alley.”
“Would Jason Brodnitz have used women who were -”
“Affordable? Of course. When the need is great, any whore will do.” Vera shifted her chair so she could watch the progress of her koi. “Joanne, unless a girl gets off on entrapment and panic, she doesn’t do S &M. If a man needs it, he has to go cheap or go young.”
My stomach lurched. “How young?”
“As young as he has to.”
“And Jason…?”
“From what I hear, he went young.”
I thought I was going to vomit, but I hung on. “So Jason got these young sex workers to invest through him.”
“Joanne, workers that young don’t have anything to invest. Their money goes for drugs, and if there’s any left over it goes to support the habits of those nearest and dearest to them. They live day to day.” Vera’s tone was faintly condescending. I was proving to be a dull pupil.
“So who did Jason invest for?”
“People like Cristal. I said he couldn’t afford her. I didn’t say he didn’t know her. From what I heard, he was a frequent visitor and she recommended him to other women. Development in the warehouse district was still in its early stages. Jason was encouraging sex workers to buy into the neighbourhood. And from what I hear, they’re doing well.”
“Is it possible he became more than just an investment adviser to Cristal?”
“You mean her boyfriend? I suppose anything’s possible.”
“I have another question,” I said. “Do you know a girl named Bree? She has a website where she lists herself as a person who does ‘odd jobs.’ ”
“The name’s no help. Those girls change their names frequently. Most often, they name themselves after their favourite soap opera characters. So what kind of odd jobs does Bree perform?”
“Sexual,” I said. “Fetishes. She told me she has a client who brings a hard-boiled egg to her room every Sunday and has her peel the egg and inject it with an old-fashioned fountain pen while he masturbates.”
Vera’s face was impassive. “If Bree has those kind of dates, she’s at the bottom of the tank. It’s strange, but the girls who worked for me didn’t like fetishes. Fucking in all its permutations and combinations didn’t trouble them, but satisfying those odd little quirks made them uneasy. Of course, I never forced any of my girls to do anything they found repugnant.”
“I don’t think Bree has anyone to protect her from those kinds of clients.”
“She works alone? That can be a mistake, but if she’s into drugs, the dangers won’t matter to her. If you want to know about Bree’s world, check out some of the cruder porn sites. Look at the eyes of the girls performing. They don’t even know where they are.”
I stood. “You’ve been very helpful,” I said.
“Yet, you’re clearly unsettled.”
“Sometimes I think I’m a very naive fifty-six-year-old.”
Vera laughed softly. “There’s something to be said for holding on to one’s illusions. Thank you for the black pansies, Joanne. I hope we’ll meet again.”
When I got home, I took my own bedding plants outside. It wasn’t long before Zack wheeled onto the deck to watch as I arranged the little pots of sweet potato vines and purple and blue pansies in a planter.
“That’s going to be pretty,” he said.
“Not as pretty as Vera Wang’s garden.”
“When were you at Vera’s house?”
“This morning. I called her after you left, and she invited me over.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You’ll notice I’m not saying anything.”
“I’ve noticed.” I took out the pots and started digging. “Is Vera a reliable source?”
“Very.”
I began planting the pansies in clusters of purple and blue. As I worked, Zack knocked the individual plants loose from their pots with his palm and handed them to me. When I’d finished with the pansies, I sat back on my heels and checked the effect. “What do you think?”
“Looks great,” he said.
I reached into the planter to pat down the soil around a plant that looked vulnerable. “Zack, those rumours that have been circulating about Jason are true.”
“He’s a pimp?”
“I don’t know, but he is handling investments for women who work as escorts.”
Zack whistled. “No wonder he backed down on the custody thing. A man whose income comes from sex workers isn’t exactly a candidate for father of the year.”
“Vera says Jason’s into rough sex with young girls.”
Zack rubbed the back of his neck. “What a prince. You know, I try not to judge, but people who hurt kids make me crazy.”
“There’s a lot about this that makes me crazy,” I said.
“So where do we go from here?”
“To the ornamental sweet potatoes,” I said.
Zack grinned, loosened the first small sweet potato vine, and handed it to me. I placed it so its bright leaves would trail over the planter’s rim.
“Zack, when you represented Vera, what was the charge?”
“Attempted murder.”
“And the victim was…?”
“A john. It was an outcall in a hotel, and the date was going badly. The girl managed to alert Vera, but by the time she arrived, the girl was just about dead. Anyway, Vera beat this guy senseless with nunchuks, then she dialed 911 and left.”
“And you got her off.”
“It wasn’t easy, but I was able to show that Vera had sustained a trauma earlier in her life that put her actions that night into context.”
“What was the trauma?”
“When Vera’s husband found out she was leaving, he knocked her out, bound her hands and feet in rags, poured lighter fuel on the rags, and set them on fire. She managed to get her hands loose and she pounded out the flames on her feet, so she could run. Both her hands and her feet are pretty well fried.”
“Hence the gloves and the slow movement.” I said.
Zack nodded. “Hence the gloves and the slow movement.” He held out another sweet potato plant. “Do you want this or have you had enough?”
“I’ve had enough,” I said. “But I can’t stop now.”
Mieka’s Mother’s Day present to me was a gathering of our family for a swim and dinner at her house. She had been offered a Sunday-afternoon catering job that was too lucrative to turn down, so we were celebrating on Saturday. Angus had sent his regrets, saying he couldn’t get away from work, so I was surprised when I walked into Mieka’s yard and my younger son was there, setting tables.
I held out my arms to him. “I thought you couldn’t make it.”
“Zack called and set me straight about a few things.”
“Such as the fact that your mother might want to see you on Mother’s Day?”
Angus’s smile was sheepish. “That and a few other things – like becoming a lawyer doesn’t mean becoming an asshole. Mum, I really am sorry. I seem to be turning into a major-league idiot.”
“Is the summer job not working out?”
“No. It’s fine. Better than fine. The people at Matheson Calder treat me really well. I don’t have a lot to do, but the projects I have are really interesting. And I like everybody at the office. Some of the juniors have a softball league and they invited me to join. It’s a great job. Zack says they want me to be happy so I’ll article with their firm.”
“What does Zack think about that?”
“He says I’ll go to Matheson Calder over his dead body. He wants me to work with him.”
“Two big law firms vying for you,” I said. “You must be doing something right.”
“Not where it counts,” Angus said. “Leah broke up with me.”
My heart fell. “We love Leah. I was so sure you two would end up together.”
“That’s what I thought. But Leah says since I started law school, all I ever talk about is law and myself. She says she’s tired of both of us being focused on me, and she’s met somebody else.”
“She can’t have been involved with this other man for long. When she was here for Zack’s party, you two seemed fine.”
“She didn’t want to wreck Zack’s birthday. She told me about the other guy when we were driving back to Saskatoon.”
“Is the new man somebody she met in medical school?”
Angus’s headshake was vehement. “No. Leah said she won’t make the same mistake twice.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she’s not getting involved with a guy who’s totally into his career. Leah’s new boyfriend is a hair stylist – her hair stylist. That’s how they met. Apparently, he’s Mr. Empathy. He ‘really listens’ to her.”
“Mr. Empathy may be carrying a lesson for you,” I said.
“Am I that bad?”
“You’re not bad at all, but it wouldn’t hurt if you actually listened once in a while.”
Angus dropped his head. “That’s what Zack says.”
“Then it must be true,” I said. “Come on, let’s get a beer and meet the new woman in Peter’s life. You can test out your new listening skills.”
“I’ve already met her,” Angus said. “Her name is Dacia, and she’s like a female Peter, except really pretty in kind of a round way.”
“What does that mean?”
Angus swooped his hands through the air in a voluptuous silhouette. “She’s curvy and very alternative. Nice hair – black and long and wavy – Birkenstocks, peasant shirt, rumpled shorts. She works in a cheese shop, and she showed Maddy and Lena how to make a whistle out of a blade of grass.”
“Sounds promising,” I said.
“Pete thinks so. At least one of your kids is lucky in love.”
I put my arm around him. “You’ve been lucky in love your whole life. Everybody in this family loves you, and Leah certainly did. My guess is that if you sat down with her and told her you realized you’d been -”
“An asshole?”
“I was going to say self-absorbed, but you’re closer to the situation than I am. Anyway, you and Leah invested a lot in each other. I bet that if you promise to shape up, she’ll give you another try.”
“What if she tells me to take a hike?”
“Tell her you understand. Pretend you’re Mr. Empathy.”
We both laughed. “Come on,” I said. “Why don’t you give your sister a hand with the burgers while I say hello to the woman who can make grass whistle.”
Dacia Lehrer was sitting on the grass with Madeleine and Lena. They were making up a story together that, judging by the giggle level, was absolutely hilarious.
When she saw Angus and me, Dacia sprang to her feet. “You’re Peter’s mum. He just went into the house to get us a cold drink. Storytelling is thirsty work.”
“I’ll bet,” I said. “You must be Dacia – the first Dacia I’ve ever known.”
“And probably the last,” she said cheerfully. “Not many parents give their kids the name the Romans used for southeast Europe.”
“Your parents must be history buffs.”
She laughed, showing the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. “They’re everything buffs. My dad says they’re autodidacts; my mum says they’re just old hippies.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I said. “So are you having fun?”
“I am. These young women and I have been telling one another stories, and it’s my turn now.”
“May I join you?”
“Please do.”
For the next fifteen minutes Dacia told a fantastic tale about the friendship between an English sparrow and a peacock. Her voice was mesmerizing: musical, full, and expressive. The girls were enthralled.
“You’re a great storyteller,” I said when she finished.
Dacia leaned close. “I can juggle too.”
“Really?”
“Really,” she said. “But I didn’t bring my devil-sticks to the party. Have to give you some reason to invite me back.”
There have been many Mother’s Days when I awoke to breakfast in bed. Once, when Angus was in charge, the menu was blue Kool-Aid and Sugar Pops. This Mother’s Day I woke up to a large and luminous abstract propped against the wall at the foot of our bed. I had spotted the painting, titled Firebrand, at a gallery in Saskatoon, and I knew it was the kind of painting I wanted to see first thing every morning. There was a beginning-of-the-world intensity about the way the artist, Scott Plear, used colour that made my spirits soar, but Zack had been noncommittal, and I’d assumed the work hadn’t evoked the same passion in him that it had in me. I’d been wrong.
“You have no idea how hard it’s been for me to wait till today to bring this home,” Zack said. “I wanted to see Firebrand in this room, and I wanted to watch your face when you realized we owned it.”
“I didn’t think you were paying attention when we were at the gallery.”
“When it comes to you, I always pay attention,” Zack said. “Are you in the mood for a little quid pro quo?”
“It’s a big painting,” I said.
Zack checked his watch. “By my calculations we have at least five hours till church.”
It was a morning filled with uncomplicated happiness. Taylor, who had been in on the purchase of the Scott Plear, had painted a companion abstract in blues, silvers, and greys that was the perfect complement for the Plear with its fluid reds, orange, and saffron. Abstracts were new turf for Taylor, and she was critical until she saw the pieces side by side. “They’re right for each other,” she said simply, and so they were.
While we were having breakfast the phone rang. It was Milo O’Brien. His telephone manner was less than impeccable. “You go to church, right.”
“Right,” I said.
“Which one?”
“St. Paul’s Cathedral,” I said. “It’s not in the constituency, Milo.”
“So which church is? Sunday morning is pretty much a dead loss for campaigning, so I figured Ginny and the twins might as well attend a service somewhere.”
“Lakeview United is within walking distance of their condo. If you alert your pal at the Leader-Post, you might even get a photo of Ginny and the girls in their Sunday best strolling down the avenue.”
“I’ll make that call. See ya.”
“See ya,” I said.
When we picked up Maddy and Lena for church, they were wearing their Easter hats and clutching pictures of the dogs they had drawn for our refrigerator. The dean’s sermon, on the complex relationship between mothers and children, was thoughtful, and after the service, reasoning that we are all children of mothers, he stood outside with a basket of gerberas and presented each of us with a flower. In the car going home, Taylor, Maddy, and Lena made a bouquet of our daisies and planned our afternoon together. There were a number of possibilities: the science centre had a new Lego exhibit, there was a children’s festival in Victoria Park, and there were three playgrounds within walking distance of our house. One possibility they didn’t consider was starting our afternoon with a visit from the police, but as it turned out, that was what happened.
I hadn’t met Inspector Debbie Haczkewicz until that day. She’d been at Cristal’s funeral, but she’d left before we could be introduced. She was a tall, powerfully built woman with assessing eyes and a gentle manner. She and Zack greeted each other warmly if warily, and he introduced me. When I unlocked the door, the dogs came bounding. I bent to stroke their fur and set their minds at ease. “The girls and I will put the dogs outside and start lunch,” I said. “Give me a shout if you’d like coffee or something cold to drink.”
Inspector Haczkewicz’s voice was even. “Actually, Mrs. Shreve, you’re the one I’ve come to see.”
I felt my heart lurch. “It’s not about someone in my family, is it?”
“No,” she said. “No, this isn’t a family matter.”
“Then what?”
Debbie Haczkewicz’s eyes drifted towards Taylor and my granddaughters. “Maybe we should talk privately.”
I turned to my daughter. “Taylor, could you get the girls a sandwich?”
“Sure,” she said, but she looked worried. I put my arm around her. “It’s okay,” I said. “Inspector Haczkewicz just needs information about a case she’s working on.”
When the girls left, Zack led Debbie into the living room, and I followed.
“What’s this about, Deb?” he said.
Debbie Haczkewicz didn’t answer him. She turned her eyes on me. “Mrs. Shreve, are you comfortable having your husband present at this interview?”
“Of course,” I said. “Why don’t we sit down?”
The inspector and I sat on the couch and Zack wheeled up close.
Debbie Haczkewicz plowed right in. “What’s your connection with Bree Steig, Mrs. Shreve?”
I glanced at Zack. His nod in response was barely perceptible, but I knew it indicated I should answer what I was asked.
I turned to face the inspector. “Yesterday, when my daughter and I came back from shopping around six o’clock, there was what appeared to be a Mother’s Day card in the mailbox. The envelope was peach, and it was addressed to me. There was no stamp, and I didn’t recognize the handwriting, but Zack likes surprises, so I assumed it was a gift.”
“But it wasn’t,” the inspector said.
“No,”
“I’ll get the envelope,” Zack said. His eyes met mine. “Tell Debbie what she needs to know.” I picked up his cue: I was to divulge only what I had to. When I saw the set of Inspector Haczkewicz’s jaw, I knew that she’d picked up the warning too.
She pulled a notepad from her jacket pocket. “Whenever you’re ready, Mrs. Shreve.”
“It starts with Cristal Avilia,” I said. “I’m aware of the connection between Zack and her, inspector. The relationship was over before we were married, but he did tell me about it, and he told me about the blackmail attempt.”
“When did he tell you all this?”
“Just after you called on the night Cristal Avilia was murdered.”
“Go on.”
“A few days after Cristal’s death, a DVD appeared in our mailbox. It was in a small padded mailing envelope. There was no name on it, but I assumed it was for me. I’ve been covering Ginny Monaghan’s campaign for a program I’m pitching to NationTV, and they often send along footage they think I’ll find helpful. Most often, they send it electronically, but not always. Anyway, I put the DVD in our machine. It was of Zack with Cristal. They were having sex.”
Debbie Haczkewicz’s head flew up. “I thought that disc had been destroyed.”
“Apparently not,” I said.
Zack came back in and offered the envelope to the inspector. She pulled a pair of white cotton gloves from her bag. “I assume when they dust this in the lab, they’ll find prints from both of you.”
I nodded.
“Zack, your prints are on file, but we’ll need yours, Mrs. Shreve.”
“I’ll stop by this afternoon,” I said.
“Thank you.” Debbie Haczkewicz opened the envelope flap, pulled out the contents, noted them in her book, and replaced them. “What did you do when you saw what was in this, Mrs. Shreve?”
“I was sick – not literally – just angry and frightened. You met our daughter in the hall, inspector. She could easily have been in the room when I opened the envelope. It was an unsettling thought. I’d already had a few sleepless nights wondering how Zack and I could have explained the DVD to Taylor if somehow she’d happened to see it. Anyway, I was furious, and I wanted these invasions of our home to stop. I picked up the phone, called the number on the funeral program, and Bree answered. We arranged to meet at Nighthawks. We talked for a few minutes. I paid for the information she gave me. She was obviously high, so she didn’t have much to tell me that was useful. Just that she hadn’t met the person who asked her to deliver the envelope.” I shifted my eyes to Zack, and when he blinked slowly, I knew not to volunteer the information about Jason. “Anyway, I wrote my cell number on my business card and left it with Bree. She wanted to reciprocate, so she wrote her address on a slip of paper. And that’s the end of the story.”
“Not quite,” Debbie Haczkewicz said, and her face was touched with sorrow. Apparently, what she was about to say never got easier. “Bree Steig was attacked last night. She was on foot. Her assailant grabbed her, pulled her down an alley, and beat her.”
“Is she dead?”
“She’s in a coma. The doctors don’t know whether she’ll recover.”
I felt myself go cold. Zack came over and took my hand. Debbie Haczkewicz’s eyes were steely. “Your business card was in Bree’s pocket, Mrs. Shreve, and she still had her cellphone. The records suggest she called you ten times last night.”
I turned to Zack. “I turned my cellphone off before we went to Mieka’s,” I said. “I never thought to turn it on again.”
“Do you have your phone with you?” Debbie Haczkewicz asked.
I reached into my bag, pulled it out, and handed it to her.
“Ten text messages,” she said.
Zack leaned forward. “Deb, you’re free to read them. Joanne has nothing to hide.”
Debbie’s face grew grimmer as she read the messages. When she was through, she handed the phone to me. “Bree was trying to get in touch with you. Do you have any idea why?”
“No,” I said. “None.” The messages were garbled. It was obvious Bree had gone straight from Nighthawks to her dealer. She was incoherent but obsessive. She had two preoccupations: the pie at Nighthawks and the possibility that the slip of paper she’d given me contained a telephone number she needed.
“Do you still have the slip of paper?” Debbie Haczkewicz asked.
“It’ll be in my purse,” I fetched the purse. Bree’s MySpace address was on one side. On the other was a telephone number. I passed the paper to Debbie Haczkewicz; she wrote down the number and handed the paper back to me. “Could you call that number please?” she said.
I picked up my cell and dialed. The person who answered was Jason Brodnitz.