tomorrow at nine.”
Our cottage was in an area called Lawyers’ Bay. The spot had been named in the 1940s with a sneer by locals nettled by the fact that Henry Hynd, a Regina lawyer, had snapped up the horseshoe of land fringing the prettiest bay on the lake. Henry and his wife, Winifred, were long-range thinkers. They planned a big family, and their dream was that their children would grow, marry, build cottages of their own on Lawyers’ Bay, where Henry and Winifred (who was called Freddy by friend and foe alike) would watch them swim and grow during the hot months of summer.
But life has a way of scuttling plans. When the Hynds’ first child, a son, was born, Freddy almost died. Lawyers’ Bay remained undeveloped until their son, Henry Junior, also a lawyer, married Harriet and they produced a single child, Kevin. Our cottages had come about because Kevin Hynd, in his first year at law school, found a family in four students in his first-year class. After Kevin and his friends graduated and became successful law partners, they built the cottages that Henry and Freddy Hynd had dreamed of.
By the time Zack and I married, Henry Senior and Freddy had gone to their respective rewards, and Henry Junior and Harriet were living in cozy proximity in an assisted-living home in Regina. The families occupying the lake homes that dotted Lawyers’ Bay bore little resemblance to the senior Hynds’ dream of happy families in cottages with squeaky doors, sandy floors, and guest books with wooden covers, of memories that focused on good times and good coffee.
Kevin never married; Blake Falconer’s marriage ended in tragedy; Chris Altieri committed suicide; Delia Wainberg married a man who graduated bottom of their class at law school and never practised law but found joy in raising their daughter and in creating life-sized woodcarvings of animals and people. And there was Zack, who, when we met, had been the most successful and solitary of them all. He had built his cottage at the urging of his partners. He hired a housekeeper, bought a big, expensive boat; then, except for the three long weekends of summer, he forgot about the place. That changed when we got together.
From the beginning I loved the cottage. The architect had understood the importance of light, and there were enough windows and skylights to please even me. Because of Zack’s wheelchair, all the rooms were large and all the doorways wide. Zack had handed the interior designer a blank cheque and told him to do whatever he thought would work. The decision had been wise.
The designer had chosen the coolest of monochromes for the walls; sleekly unobtrusive furniture for the public rooms, and abstract art throughout the house that was pleasing but not challenging. Only the concert-sized Steinway and the collection of moths mounted in shadow boxes were of Zack’s choosing.
When Zack and I married, he told me to make whatever changes I wanted to. I didn’t change a thing. The large uncluttered spaces were great for a family that included a man in a wheelchair, a daughter still at home who had many friends, two granddaughters, two big dogs, and two cats. I liked the spare decor and the hardwood floors. My favourite room was the sunroom that overlooked the lake. The designer had found a partners’ table at a country auction – a massive piece with twelve matching chairs. It was ornate, out of fashion, and, for that reason, dirt cheap.
That late afternoon, Zack and I had our pickerel there, so we could watch the sun blaze its shining path on the lake and keep an eye on Pantera and Willie.
After Pantera ripped down the hill, did a face plant into the sand, shook his square head, lumbered into the lake, and began swimming, Zack turned to me. “The dogs love it here.”
“No leashes,” I said. “I love it too. Same reason.”
“Any time you want to move out here, say the word.”
“Four more years,” I said. “After Taylor finishes high school.”
“Fair enough,” Zack said. “So what are you going to do out here?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“I’m going to get an office in town,” Zack said. “No partners, no clients, just my name on the door. Pantera and I aren’t like you and Willie. We need a destination.”
After we ate, we went down to the lake. It was chilly, and I went back up to the cottage to get our jackets. When I glanced out the window, Zack was sitting on the dock with Pantera. They were at peace, and I wondered how long it would be before they were at peace again.
I walked down to the dock and handed Zack his jacket. “Penny for your thoughts,” I said.
“Just trying to sort out the tangle. There’s always a loose end that starts unravelling it all. I’m just trying to figure out where it is.”
“Maybe Margot and I will find it in Wadena.”
Zack leaned back in his chair. “I wouldn’t be surprised. One lousy choice and an entire life changes.”
“Are you talking about what happened to you?” I said.
“No,” Zack said. “No complaints here. No one has had a better life than me.”
“Don’t use the past tense,” I said. “You and I are just hitting our stride.”
We sat in silence as the path of light on the lake grew wider and finally disappeared. The sky grew dark. Usually, this was the signal for other cottagers to turn on their lights, but that night there was no one there but us. There was a tang of skunk in the air and, except for the slap of the waves on the shore, the world was quiet. Finally, Zack sighed. “Time to go to bed, Ms. Shreve. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
“I know,” I said. “But we still have tonight.”
CHAPTER 12
It didn’t take long for the harmony that had enveloped us to disappear. As I drove back to the city the next morning, Zack thumbed his BlackBerry and muttered an expletive. “I guess it was just a matter of time,” he said.
“Till what?”
“Till the cops got hold of Cristal’s client list. And someone made the job easy for them – sent it to them electronically. The police have been quick to request the men whose names appear on the list to honour them with their presence.”
“Including you?”
“Including me.”
“Any idea who supplied the police with the list?”
“According to the e-mail address, it was Bree Steig. Comatose, under twenty-four-hour watch, but apparently still able to use her Hotmail account.”
“Someone knew her password.”
“Right. Debbie Haczkewicz must be pulling her hair out. Almost two weeks since Cristal was killed – no arrest and the number-one suspect just got murdered. Now, some public-spirited citizen sends Debbie the names of thirty-two of our city’s best and brightest, with the suggestion that one of them had a very good reason for killing both Cristal and Jason.”
“It would be interesting to know who sent the e-mail.”
“Interesting but not easy. Trying to discover the user of a Hotmail account is right up there with counting the number of angels that can dance on the head of a pin. Interviewing all the men on that list is going to take time and personnel, and that gives us our silver lining.”
“How so?”
“Because it’ll take some of the heat off Ginny. It’s hard to imagine circumstances under which she would have found Cristal’s client list and sent it to the police.”
“It’s not hard at all,” I said. “If Jason had the list, Ginny could have picked it up the morning he died. I don’t believe that’s what
“I didn’t need to hear that.”
“Well, while I’m on a roll – we haven’t talked about Blake.”
Zack’s jaw tightened. “What about him?”
“When I told him Jason Brodnitz was dead, Blake said ‘People like that deserve to die.’ ”
