The Endless Knot

“Could mean a lot of things,” I said, “but let’s not go into the Twilight Zone. There was no reason for Howard to kill Kathryn. Whatever damage she could do to him had already been done. And sodden as his brain has been of late, Howard’s too shrewd to confess to murder on the off chance that Charlie might be involved.”

Zack’s glance was quick but assessing. “So you think Howard must know something?”

“Or thinks he knows something,” I said. “After the shooting, Howard kept a close eye on Kathryn Morrissey. If he was watching her place last night, it’s possible he saw Charlie.”

“Howard’s a drunk, Jo. It’s possible he sees a lot of things. The fact is there was no reason for Charlie to go to Kathryn’s house. The trial was over.”

“And justice had been served,” I said. “But Sam Parker was dead, and Charlie blamed Kathryn.”

“You talked to him?”

“No, Mieka and Peter did. Apparently Charlie was livid. He thought Kathryn should be punished for what she’d done. Pete couldn’t control him, so he called Mieka.”

“And Mieka was able get Charlie to cool it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But we should probably find out before Howard gets himself in any deeper.”

I took out my cell and started hitting the speed dial. My daughter didn’t answer, neither did my son or Charlie. “No luck,” I said. “Would you mind dropping me at NationTV – I might be able to find out something there.”

“Your wish is my command,” Zack said. He patted my leg. “I’ve always wanted to say that to a woman, but it’s so cheesy.”

“And cheesy doesn’t matter with me?”

“No, because we’re committed. We spent four hours looking at paint chips so we could find a colour we could both live with for our bedroom. You’d never put yourself through that with another guy.” He executed a neat U-turn and we were back on Albert Street. Five minutes later we were at NationTV.

“If you need a ride home, give me a call,” Zack said.

“Where are you going to be?”

“Back at our house, working on the list for the retrofitting.”

“You’re the most focused human being I’ve ever known,” I said.

Zack shrugged. “The sooner those bedroom walls are painted Lavendre de Provence, the sooner we can move the bed in.”

I gave my name to the commissionaire at NationTV. He called Rapti and she buzzed me through the door that led to the newsroom. Rapti wasn’t in her cubicle. She was by the window, with a telephone cradled between her ear and shoulder, taking notes. When she saw me, she held up a finger indicating one minute. I took a chair and perused the latest photos of Rapti’s cat, Zuben. Rapti hated cats, but she loved Zuben, with whom she shared what she characterized as a complicated and deeply textured relationship.

I was trying to decide whether a photo of Zuben in a Santa hat was ironic or deeply textured when Rapti came over. “Where have you been?” she said. “Jill’s been hollering at me because she couldn’t find you.”

“I was watching the EMS team bring out Kathryn Morrissey’s body,” I said.

Rapti sat down on the edge of her desk. “You knew about that already? That must mean your boyfriend has been hired to defend somebody.”

“No. It just means I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. However, I am prepared to exchange information. What do you have?”

“Not much yet,” she said. “Kathryn Morrissey was killed with …” Rapti squinted at her notepad. “I can’t make out my own writing, but they were some sort of Chinese carved figures.”

“Baku,” I said. “She owned a pair of them. They’re supposed to capture bad dreams.”

“They weren’t on the job last night,” Rapti said tartly. She stared at me. “Trade you places. I need the computer.” We switched and Rapti, an effortless multi-tasker, began typing up her notes and filling me in. “From what we’ve heard,” she said, “Kathryn Morrissey’s death was horrific. Her murderer used the baku to bludgeon her to death.”

I swallowed hard. “Any idea who did it?”

“Not so far. Kathryn Morrissey’s son found her this morning.” Rapti checked her notes. “He’s thirteen years old.”

I shuddered. “Imagine finding your mother like that. He’ll never get over it.”

“I guess not,” Rapti said. “We’re trying to track him down, but he seems to have been invisible.”

“Try the neighbourhood schools,” I said. “If he is thirteen, he has to be enrolled somewhere.”

“Good thinking,” Rapti said. She tapped into the Regina school listings. “Boy, who knew there were this many schools in Regina?”

“You can eliminate most of them,” I said. “Given where Kathryn Morrissey lived, the logical possibilities are Pope Pius XII and Lakeview.”

“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, I choose Pius XII,” Rapti said. She aimed a perfectly manicured nail at the keypad of her telephone and tapped in the number on the screen. When her call was answered, she gave me a thumbs-up sign. “This is Rapti Lustig from NationTV,” she said “Do you have a student there by the name of Ethan Morrissey. He’s thirteen. Thank you, I’ll hold.”

“Ethan,” I repeated, and my chest was heavy with the burden of information I didn’t want to carry. “And you say he’s thirteen?”