The Endless Knot

“Eight-thirty,” she said.

“No problem,” I said. “My spot on Canadian Morning is in twenty minutes. Zack’s going to drive me. We’re planning to go over to the new house after I finish, but we can swing by here and take you to school first.” I looked at her carefully. “Taylor, do you want a ride because you’re afraid of running into Ethan?”

She lowered her eyes. “Yes.”

“This has gone far enough,” I said. “I’ll call Ethan’s mum this morning.”

Taylor looked unconvinced. I put my arms around her. “It’s not always like this between girls and boys,” I said. “Most of the time, it’s a lot of fun. Look at me. I ended up with the big sparkly top banana.”

My big sparkly top banana followed me into makeup when we got to NationTV. It was comforting to have him nearby sipping coffee and making small talk with the young man who was spraying my hair and correcting my lip line as Canadian Morning played mutely on the TV in the corner. My cell rang just as I was getting out of the makeup chair.

“Where are you?” Jill said.

“Where I’m supposed to be,” I said. “Just getting out of the makeup chair, heading for the set.”

Jill sighed. “Jo, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For hanging up on you. For second-guessing you. For slagging you. For slagging the man you’re going to marry. For being a lousy friend. Is that enough?”

“It’s a start,” I said.

“I’ll call you after the show and continue to abase myself. Oh, one good thing. Kathryn Morrissey was supposed to be on Canada A.M. this morning, but she was a no-show. The host was stuck talking to an old lady with a narcoleptic dog.”

Rapti did a nice job producing the Sam Parker segment. There was a two-minute reprise of the trial; then Max Chan, the host of Canadian Morning, and I talked about Sam Parker. Max was a fine interviewer – quick and sensitive. Our discussion about how Glenda Parker’s personal crucible had caused Sam Parker to re-evaluate his stance on cultural issues was good television. Zack was in the studio with me, and when I finished, he gave me the thumbs-up sign.

When Zack and I dropped Taylor off at school, I watched until she waved from the door and disappeared inside; then Zack and I drove towards the new house. We’d just pulled into the driveway when my cell rang. I looked at the caller ID and cursed technology. The number was Howard Dowhanuik’s. Guilt made me pick up. I’d left messages at Howard’s, but I hadn’t seen him since the trial ended.

As always with Howard, there was no preamble. “There’s some trouble here,” he said.

“What kind of trouble?”

Howard tried his usual tone of sharp command. “Just get over here.”

“Not good enough, Howard. I haven’t heard from you in days. I have a life of my own. If you want me to come over, I’ll need a reason.”

“Jo, I need you to come and I need you to bring Zachary Shreve. I need help.”

“Howard, what’s happened?”

His tone changed. “Please just come to my house. I need a friend and I need a lawyer.”

CHAPTER

12

Zack’s notoriety and the fact that he was in a wheelchair were useful that morning. By the time we approached the entrance to the cul-de-sac where Howard lived, the police barricades were already up, and people in uniforms were moving purposefully over the careful landscaping, festooning shrubs with yellow crime-scene tape, snapping pictures, dropping samples into plastic bags. Most of the attention was centred on Kathryn Morrissey’s condominium. An EMS vehicle was parked in her driveway, but the emergency lights were not flashing. Zack angled his car beside a police cruiser, opened his door, and turned to the back seat to get his chair. My heart was racing. A young officer came over.

“So what’s going on?” Zack asked.

A flash of recognition crossed the young cop’s face. He knew who Zack was, and he knew what Zack did for a living. Keeping a trial lawyer on the other side of the barricade would be a pleasure.

“Police business,” the officer said.

Zack unfolded his chair and manoeuvred himself into it. “Fair enough,” he said equitably. He pointed to Howard’s house. “I have lawyer business over there, and I’d be grateful if you lifted your barricade for a moment so I can get my chair through.”

The officer clenched his jaw, but he moved the barrier and let us pass.

Howard met us at the door. I was relieved to see that he was both clean and sober. The stitches on his face had healed sufficiently to allow a proper shave, and his shirt and slacks were fresh. The living-room curtains were drawn, but the televisions were silent, and there was nary a glass nor a bottle in sight. The place smelled pleasantly of woodsmoke, but when I glanced at the fireplace, I saw that in his frenzy of housekeeping, Howard had even vacuumed up the ashes from his fire.

Howard extended his hand to Zack. “Thanks for coming,” he said. Then, surprisingly, he extended his hand to me. “You too. I appreciate it.”

“So what’s happening?” Zack said.

Howard’s narrative style had the finesse of a drill sergeant’s. “Somebody died next door.”

“Was it Kathryn Morrissey?” I asked.