silvers and blues are sublime and that little wash of black at the top of the canvas – genius. How did she know?”
“Instinct?” I said. “I guess that’s what makes Plear and Taylor the ones who paint and you and me the ones who are grateful, and I am grateful. Those pieces are perfect together.”
“That’s because they belong together,” Ed said. “The colours, the technique. Taylor was working off what Plear had done.”
“She worried about being derivative,” I said. “But she needed to learn.”
“And she did,” Ed said. “They’ll be spectacular side by side. You’ve got that huge wall.
“Delicious,” Ed said. “And
In fifteen minutes the paintings were hung. “Satisfied?” Ed said.
“Completely,” I said. “The last few days have been rough, and there’s such joy in those paintings.”
Ed’s attention had been drawn by a framed illumination over Zack’s dresser. He read the words. “ ‘The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.’ ” Ed raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have guessed Zack was a Chaucer man.”
“It was a gift from an old lawyer friend who obviously believed Zack had a few things to learn. He treasures it.”
“As well he might,” Ed said. He turned back to Taylor’s painting. “Let’s raise a figurative glass to your daughter. May she have all the time she needs to perfect her skill.”
“That’s a nice thought,” I said. I flicked off the light and started back up the hall, with Ed and the dogs padding after me.
“So, are we going to be raising any glasses tonight when the election results are in?” Ed asked.
“Depends who you voted for.”
“I voted for Ginny,” Ed said.
“That surprises me,” I said. “I thought you’d written her off.”
“I had,” Ed said. “But only because I thought Jason had withdrawn his custody suit to protect his daughters. Then it turned out the only one he was protecting was himself. His business dealings with prostitutes don’t exactly bolster his reputation as a solid citizen.”
“So you believe the rumours.”
“I know they’re true,” Ed said. “Saturday night, Barry and I had drinks with our friend David, the one who has a condo in the same building as the murdered woman. He says Jason Brodnitz was a frequent visitor.”
“Not a customer?”
“Not unless Jason needed satisfaction several times a day,” Ed said. “Now I’d better be on my way.”
I helped Ed on with his slicker. He checked his reflection in the hall mirror and shuddered. “God, I look like a giant Smartie.”
CHAPTER 15
In a TV studio on election night, the real pitched battle is not between political parties: it’s between television’s need for scripted precision and the stretches of blank time when nothing happens except the counting of votes of citizens who live in five and a half different time zones. That year, NationTV’s strategy for goosing the interest level during these wastelands was an innovation the network called “The Pulse.” On election night, the atrium of the shining glass building would be open to the general public whose reward for staring at large screens filled with an endless procession of politicos would be the opportunity to offer on-air comments when nothing better was going on. When I arrived at five o’clock, the joint was already jumping. I picked my way over the cables snaking across the atrium floor and entered the doors that led away from the public space into the working studios and the makeup room.
Like a six-year-old awaiting an unwelcome haircut, Keith Harris was poised on a stool, staring glumly at his mirrored reflection while a bored young woman tucked a towel into his collar to keep makeup off his shirt. I positioned myself on the couch behind him so we could see each other in the mirror.
“I didn’t know you were part of tonight’s festivities,” I said.
“I’m a last-minute substitution,” Keith said. “The officially sanctioned spokesperson for the party is sleeping off a massive bender.”
“How’s it going?” I said.
“Our turnout in the Maritimes is heavy – good news for us this time out – because our party has actually treated the Maritimes decently. Quebec is Quebec. We can’t count on much there. Voters in the 905 belt around Toronto are trooping out, and the clowns we have masterminding our campaign are convinced this gives us cause for celebration. They’re wrong. There are more tract houses than century homes in the 905 area these days. Besides, living in a century house is no longer a guarantee that you vote the way grandpa did. Too soon to tell abut the 416 vote, but there’s no reason to think we’ll do well. Torontonians think our rhetoric is stale, and they don’t get the social conservatism. That puts them in step with many other Canadians. If Ginny were leader, it would be a different story, but as it stands, we will not do well in the Greater Toronto Area.”
“You really think Ginny could have brought in the GTA vote?”
“I do,” Keith said. “But it’s a moot point, isn’t it?”
The young woman with the pancake makeup was working magic. Keith’s pallor was gone; he looked as if he’d just come back from two weeks in the sun. “Stop talking, please,” the young woman said. She patted under his eyes, dusted his shining pate with powder, ran a comb through what was left of his hair, and whipped off the towel. “You’re done,” she said.
Keith smiled at her pleasantly. “You have no idea how right you are,” he said.
The young woman motioned me into the chair, and within minutes the crow’s feet around my eyes were barely discernible, my cheeks glowed with health, and my lipline was smooth. Miracles all around.
“Want to go out in the atrium and take the pulse of the people?” I said.
Keith shook his head. “Nah. Let’s sit in the green room and eat NationTV’s Cheezies.”
The evening began slowly, as election nights always do for Western Canadians. Until the polls closed in Saskatchewan and Alberta, our role was to watch and wait. But during the watching and waiting, some intriguing patterns were developing. As Keith had predicted, his party was doing well in the Maritimes, and Quebec, as usual, was carving out her own destiny. A heavy vote in the 905 was usually good news for the Tories, but tonight significant numbers of voters were apparently shifting to the middle. The Tories weren’t losing seats, but their margins of victory were razor-thin. People in the area surrounding Toronto were voting like the Torontonians many of them had been until they moved to the burgeoning towns that ringed the city.
By the time the Saskatchewan and Albertan results started coming in, the three national networks were declaring that Canada was headed for a minority government and that the party controlling the government would be decided in the West. Alberta would be in the Tory column, but Saskatchewan and British Columbia were question marks. It was a night for caffeine and chewed fingernails, but there’d be no chewed fingernails in Palliser. By early evening, it was clear that Ginny Monaghan had lost the riding to the NDP’S sacrificial lamb, Evan Shattuck.
Ginny didn’t prolong the agony. When word came that she had arrived at the Pile O’ Bones Club and was about to concede defeat, the network producer signalled me over. The network was picking up Ginny’s speech live and wanted commentary.
As always, one picture was worth a thousand words. Tonight, there was no need to pull back the divider between the two banquet halls. Milo had done his best to cluster Ginny’s supporters in front of the cameras, but defeat has a way of thinning a crowd.
Keith and I were seated side by side watching the monitor, and as Ginny came to the podium flanked by her slender, long-limbed daughters, his breath was ragged. I shot him a worried glance, but we were both wearing lapel mikes, so his only reassurance was a companionable wink before we both turned back to the monitor.
Ginny’s speech was short and gracious. She thanked all her opponents on a hard-fought race, congratulated Evan on his victory, and then launched into her remarks.
