both diplomacy and logistics.
The number of items cottagers believed essential to their existence had grown exponentially since the 1940s, when Stan’s father had opened his store, but the square-footage inside the building hadn’t increased. Despite Stan’s best efforts, stock teetered on shelves and spilled onto the ubiquitous and universally despised display racks. Stock and fixtures weren’t the only problems. A pitched battle had developed between the old men who had been meeting in front of the pop cooler at the Point Store since they were pups, and the sleek young matrons who presided over the huge summer homes that crowded the lakeshore. In a phrase, the issue was squatters’ rights: the old men were for them, the young matrons were against them.
The situation into which Leah and Angus walked was fraught, but Leah had been quick to propose a solution. Her idea was simple: set up a few picnic tables under the old cottonwood trees at the side of the store, offer Stan’s friends refreshments, and give the sleek matrons who were ready to pay top dollar for free-range chickens and anything labelled organic a clean, well-lit place in which to shop. Stan himself had selected the name for the new place. It would, he said, be called Coffee Row, because there was no point sticking a fancy name on something when you could call it what it was. The news that Coffee Row would be opening the Tuesday after the long weekend had been the number-one topic among the Point Store’s customers for days. Chris Altieri’s death meant there would be another story.
My son’s girlfriend had a rare ability to scope out a situation, and that morning she was quick to take my measure. “I’m assuming you’d rather not talk about last night,” she said.
“Anything but,” I said. “Is everything under control for the grand opening?”
Leah pursed her lips. “Well, we’re getting there. But I could use a little help with the refreshments. Since it’s a special day, we’re serving sandwiches: bologna and egg salad. Speaking of which…” She went to the fridge and removed a large ceramic bowl heaped with hard-boiled eggs. “Time for me to get crackin’.”
We groaned in unison. “Nothing beats egg humour,” I said.
Leah set the bowl on the table between us, and we began.
I had just finished peeling the last egg when Angus came in. He lolled against the doorway with his face screwed in an expression of distaste. “This place smells like farts. What are you guys doing?”
“Making lunch,” I said, holding the bowl out to him.
Angus grabbed an egg. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m starving.”
“Got time to give your old mother a hug?” I asked. Leah took the bowl, and I drew my son close, savouring the coolness of his body and the dampness of his hair. Last night had been a sharp reminder that the threads linking us to those we love are fragile.
“It’s okay, Mum,” Angus said, breaking away. “I’m still here.”
“Which is great,” Leah said, “except that you should have been at the store twenty minutes ago. Got to wipe down those picnic tables, babe. Got to put on the oilcloth.”
“Oilcloth?” I said.
“Mr. Gardiner had a bolt of it in his barn,” Leah said. “It’s brown-and-white checked – very retro.”
“In that case, I’ll love it,” I said. “I’m pretty retro myself.”
Leah picked up a pastry cutter and began moving it smartly through the bowl of hard-boiled eggs. “Come to the opening,” she said. “Free food, and all the rotten coffee you can drink. I wanted to get beans from Roca Jacks, but Mr. Gardiner says his friends have been drinking floor sweepings all their lives and the good stuff would just confuse them.”
It was a tempting invitation, but after Leah and Angus left, the energy seeped out of me. Heavy-limbed and gritty-eyed, I had the sense I was inhabiting a body that had been punished hard and long. As I sat at the kitchen table, staring at my coffee, my Bouvier, Willie, nudged me. His message was clear. We usually hit the beach by 5:45 at the latest. We were very, very late.
Willie followed me to the bedroom and stared as I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. When I reached for my runners, he began to circle, then he directed me to his leash and the door. Bouviers do not rate high on the dog- intelligence scale, but when it came to his run, Willie fired up all the circuits.
It was a hot morning with a haze that hinted at the possibility of rain. Willie barked at the birds chilling out in Harriet Hynd’s bird bath, then dragged me towards the horseshoe of beach that surrounded the bay. We were both committed to the routine, but it appeared Willie’s dedication was of a deeper order than mine. The last sight I wanted to see on that tranquil July morning was the spot where Chris Altieri had died, but neither death nor trauma deterred Willie. As he had since we arrived, my dog headed straight for the dock beside the boat ramp.
The vehicles used in the investigation had chewed up the beach badly, and the dock was muddy and lashed with weeds, but the lake itself was as flat and benign as a plate. My throat tightened. I jerked Willie’s leash. “Time to go,” I said.
Running helped. It was a haiku day, worthy of seventeen syllables of celebration, and my endorphins were pumping. Survival seemed possible until I spotted the gazebo. I froze. Willie cocked his head, awaiting the next development. I reached down and gave him a reassuring pat; then, obeying an impulse I didn’t understand, I led him along the beach towards the overhang of land where the gazebo had been built.
One of Noah Wainberg’s most eloquent pieces hung like a figure on a ship’s prow from the base of the structure. The carving was of a woman, seemingly a prisoner, her hands tied behind her back, her legs long and graceful, her breasts full, her face gentle but filled with an ancient and private sorrow. I had jogged past the carving for a week, but I had never seen it from this angle, and it was compelling. I reached out and touched the curve of her arm. Sun-heated, the wood was warm as flesh.
“Noah used my body as his model for the piece.” The voice was husky and low. It was Lily Falconer’s. I turned to face her. She’d been jogging, too. Her face was slick with sweat and her long hair had come loose. It fell against her shoulders – brush strokes of black against the glowing bronze of her skin. Her shorts and halter were the colour of pale jade, but they too were sweat-stained. “I need to talk to you,” she said.
I gestured towards the gazebo. “Maybe we should go in there, get out of the sun.”
She shook her head vehemently. “No. Let’s just go down to the beach.” She reached down and snapped off Willie’s leash. “Your dog wants to play in the water.”
Free at last, Willie bounded into the lake. Outmanoeuvred, I followed him.
When we came to the beach, Lily dropped to the sand and lay on her back, arms flung wide, palms up, legs sprawled, eyes closed. She was absolutely without self-consciousness. As I looked at her toned body and endless legs, I knew that if I had a body like hers, I wouldn’t be timid either.
She didn’t waste time on preamble. “I heard that you and your son tried to save Chris. We’re all grateful for that.”
“I wish the outcome had been different,” I said.
“If wishes were horses, then beggars could ride.” There was an edge in Lily’s voice, the pragmatist correcting the dreamer. “Chris is dead, Joanne. All we can do now is keep things from getting worse.”
A seagull swooped down and snagged something from the water. Willie, unaware that his mission was futile, paddled to the spot where the bird had been.
“I agree,” I said. “Has something happened?”
Lily pushed herself up on her elbows and met my gaze. “There’s a police officer named Alex Kequahtooway who wants to talk to you. From what I understand, you won’t need to be introduced.”
Her announcement had the force of a punch in the stomach. She was right. Inspector Alex Kequahtooway and I didn’t need an introduction. For three years, he had been my lover, and our parting had not been amicable.
“No,” I said. “The inspector and I are acquainted.”
“Then you know you can trust him.”
“I know I can trust him professionally,” I said.
A hint of a smile passed her lips. “Well, that’s all that matters here, isn’t it?”
“Lily, what is it exactly that you want me to do?”
“Tell the truth,” she said. “Answer the questions you’re asked but don’t introduce anything extraneous. Alex says -”
“Alex?” I said.
“We go way back.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “That sun’s hot.”
“Maybe we should move.”
In a movement as fluid as an athlete’s, Lily stood up. For a beat, she stared at the horizon. “No, we’re
