she read the question in my eyes. “My work,” she said. “A portrait of me as I am now: fragmented and aging.”
“Myra! Myra!” Theo’s voice, youthful and excited, rang out from the other room. Myra sighed softly. “And there is Theo as he is now.”
An odd scene greeted us. Theo was holding the matryoshka I’d purchased at Brokaw’s. My purse lay open on the table in front of him, and he was beaming. “She brought the doll, Myra. Every year at Christmas, we get a new one, and here it is. I spied it in her purse when she opened it to get her glasses, but I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
“I’m so sorry, Joanne,” Myra whispered. She looked at her husband with concern. “I don’t think I can take it away from him.”
“Keep it,” I said. “Please. Let it be my gift.”
“Thank you,” Myra said.
“Come and look,” Theo crowed. “This one is a real beauty.” The wooden matryoshka with her brightly painted headscarf, her shiny black hair, rosebud lips, and rounded flower-painted body was traditional, and Theo was clearly delighted. He held the doll between his thumb and forefinger. “I have a secret,” he said in a soft imitation of a feminine voice. He transferred the doll to the palm of his other hand, opened it, and removed a second doll. “I have a secret,” he said in a voice that was slightly higher in pitch. He repeated the action and the phrase “I have a secret” until five identical dolls, each smaller than her predecessor, were lined up on the coffee table. When he opened the sixth and found the final doll – no larger than a child’s fingernail but identical in every way to the others – he spoke the climactic line in a voice that was very small and very high. “And I am the secret,” he said. Then his eyes darted between his wife and me, seeking our approval.
Myra smiled at him fondly. “That was splendid, Theo. Thank you.” She put her fingers firmly under my elbow. “Joanne’s leaving us now,” she said.
Theo stood and bowed. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Not many do.”
Myra led the way to the door and then came with me as I stepped outside. She pulled the door closed behind us. Because the door had been open when I arrived, I hadn’t seen the wreath. It was fresh and eye-catching: a perfect circle of bay leaves, eucalyptus, and pomegranates dusted with gold mica powder.
“That’s exquisite,” I said.
“I made it,” Myra said. “I suddenly find myself with ample time for the womanly arts.” Her eyes met mine. “We’re going to have to take a different approach to our television project, aren’t we?” She began speaking quickly, cutting off the possibility of objection. “Perhaps we could arrange for an actor, someone really fine like Donald Sutherland, to read from Theo’s judgments. The TV people could intersperse the readings with videos of Theo talking about the law – before – when he was himself. I have a box of home movies: Theo hiking, picnicking – the human side of the man – and excellent videos of him discussing the philosophy of law with his students. Joanne, there are endless ways this could be done.”
“Is it Alzheimer’s?” I asked.
Myra slumped. She hadn’t convinced me, and she knew it. “No, but the effect is the same. He was shingling the roof of our cottage Labour Day weekend. We could have paid to have it done, but you know Theo.” Her laugh was short. “But, of course, you don’t know Theo. Not Theo as he was – as I believe he still is somewhere inside that shell you saw. The man I was married to for over four decades was the most capable human being I’ve ever known. He was also clever and charming and fascinating. And it was all over in a second.”
“What happened?”
“He fell. One minute we were leading the lives we’d always led. I was in my garden picking beans for lunch, and Theo was on the roof shingling. He lost his footing, fell to the ground, and suffered what is characterized as a ‘traumatic frontal lobe brain injury’ – it was devastating. Parts of his long-term memory are intact, but he has no short-term memory to put daily life into context. He’s confused; he’s agitated; he’s unpredictable. Drugs don’t help, but I’m not giving up. I believe I still see flashes of the man he was.”
“There was a spark when he described Zack’s performance in court,” I said.
“There was.” She was ardent. “I live for those glimpses of the man he was. They’re proof that the real Theo is still in there. My husband has always set himself goals and not only met but exceeded them. He’s already made progress. At first, he didn’t know where he was or whether it was night or day. Now, he’s putting the pieces together.” Myra’s eyes glittered. “Theo needs a reason to get up in the morning. So do I. Don’t take that away from us, Joanne.”
It took Taylor and me an hour to feed the colonies of cats in the warehouse district and in the abandoned building across the alley from the condos on Scarth Street Mall. When we’d emptied our last bag of food on the snow, I looked across the alley and saw Louise Hunter getting into a Mercedes parked behind her building. She seemed to be in a hurry. She backed out, hit a garbage can, jerked forward, then backed out again and sped off. Angus, who had owned a series of clunkers but loved cars, would have said it was a shitty way to treat 200,000 dollars’ worth of sweet driving machine, and he would have been right.
By the time we all got home, Zack and Taylor and I were hungry and tired, so we ate early. The borscht and thick slices of dark pumpernickel from the Brokaw family bakery made for a deeply satisfying meal. When he’d finished his second bowl of soup, Zack pushed his chair back and sighed with contentment. “You know, even the lousiest day has its moments,” he said.
“And the evening has just begun,” I said.
Right on cue, Zack’s cell rang. As he listened, his face grew sombre. When the call ended, he turned to us. “That was Delia,” he said. “The police just found Abby Michaels.”
CHAPTER 5
Zack was a realist. If the truth was painful, he faced it, dealt with it, and moved along. That evening after he talked to Delia, he didn’t waste time on any preamble when he spoke to Taylor and me. “Bad news,” he said. His voice was low and his eyes were filled with concern as his gaze moved between us. “Abby Michaels is dead. An hour ago, two men digging out the parking lot behind the A-l Jewellery and Pawn Shop on Toronto Street found a black Volvo with the licence plate LECTOR. Abby Michaels’s body was in the front seat. It’s early times yet but the police believe she was raped and strangled.”
Taylor’s body tensed at the news. I put my arm around her and rubbed her shoulder. “How could something like that happen?” she said.
The parentheses that bracketed Zack’s lips deepened. “I ask myself that every time I see a case like this. It’s hard to believe that human beings can treat one another so brutally. But it happens. All I can tell you is that the person who did this will be caught and punished.”
Taylor’s face was strained. “But will anyone ever know
Zack didn’t lie. “The Crown will present theories. The man’s lawyer will present other theories. But the only person who will ever really know what went through his mind before he attacked Abby Michaels is the man himself. Generally rapists are men who feel powerless and who feel a need to prove their power. Sometimes, the situation spins out of control, and they kill their victim. I know that’s not a satisfactory answer, but those are the facts.”
I could feel Taylor’s muscles tighten again. When she spoke she couldn’t hide her fear and frustration. “I understand that part of it, but with Abby, there are other facts. Before the rape happened, she gave away her baby. It’s almost as if she knew something terrible was coming, and she wanted to make sure Jacob was safe.”
Zack and I exchanged glances. “We’re all in the dark here,” I said. “But we’ll know more soon. Your dad’s friend, Inspector Haczkewicz, always says that a police investigation is like turning on the lights in a room where everything’s in place. You just need to see what’s already there.”
“So you think the police will find out why she gave away her baby before that terrible thing happened to her?”
“I know they will,” Zack said. “As your mother says, it’s a matter of time.”
Taylor’s voice was tight. “I guess Izzy’s parents have already told her.”
“I’m sure they have,” Zack said. He looked closely at Taylor’s face. It was pale and pinched. “Are you all right?”
Without answering, she picked up her bowl and plate, walked to the sink and rinsed them. “Isobel was so
