excited about having a sister,” she said.
“She could probably use someone to talk to,” I said. “Why don’t you give her a call?”
Taylor glanced at the dishes on the table. “Do you need me to help?”
“Your dad and I can handle it,” I said.
After we’d finished cleaning up, Zack took two tulip-shaped Scotch glasses from the cupboard.
I looked at him questioningly. “You’re not going over to the Wainbergs’?”
He shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do except hold Delia’s hand, and she has Noah for that. Besides, I’m tired. Tonight I need a hand to hold, and Delia’s is not my hand of choice.”
It was the first time I could remember Zack acknowledging that he was tired. “You’re in luck,” I said. “Mine is available.”
“One of my clients gave me what he claims is a bottle of excellent single malt,” Zack said. “It’s called Old Pulteney. Interested in giving it a test run?”
“You bet,” I said. “I’ll bring the glasses; you get Old Pulteney, and I’ll meet you in the family room. We can light the fire, turn on the tree lights, and try to remember that it’s Christmas.”
When we were together on the couch, I handed Zack his drink. He held the glass under his nose and inhaled deeply. “My client told me that to be fair to the single malt, I should allow myself a half-hour free of stress and distractions before I sip.” He stared at the Scotch thoughtfully. “Screw that.” He took a large swallow. “You know, this really is pretty good.”
I sipped. “More than pretty good,” I said. “Here’s to a half-hour free of stress and distractions.”
For a few minutes we sat in companionable silence, letting the warmth of the Scotch spread through our veins while we savoured the fire, the tree, and the closeness to one another. “I could get used to this,” I said.
“So could I,” Zack agreed, “but we’re going to have to talk about Abby Michaels.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be,” he said. “Taylor posed the right question. What happened? In a murder investigation, the police start with the body, then focus on the scene where the body was found and the victim’s history. The old cops call it the golden triangle, and a lot of the time they can make an educated guess about why someone was murdered just by checking out where the body was found. If a body is left in a public place, as Abby’s was, chances are they’re looking at what the cops call ‘a crime of opportunity.’ ”
“The victim is just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I said.
“Right, but this time, the formula doesn’t work.”
“Because of Abby’s determination to get Jacob into the Wainbergs’ hands before she was attacked,” I said.
Zack nodded. “As Taylor says, it was almost as if Abby knew something was going to happen to her, and she wanted to make sure Jacob was safe.”
“It does look that way,” I said. “Except Abby couldn’t have had any enemies in Regina. The only people she knew here were the Wainbergs.”
“And she’d never met them,” Zack said. “So Abby Michaels comes to a city where she knows no one, gives away her son, and is raped and murdered in the parking lot behind a pawn shop.”
“Abby had an appointment in Samarra,” I said.
“You think her death was fated?” Zack said.
I shrugged. “You know the old story. A man believes he sees Death threatening him in the market in Baghdad so he runs to Samarra to escape. When he goes to the market in Samarra, Death is waiting for him, because that’s where the man was supposed to die all along.”
Zack was pensive. “I wonder how eager Abby Michaels was to outwit death,” he said finally.
I looked at him hard. “Surely you don’t think Abby brought this on herself?”
“Of course not,” Zack said. “But from what Mieka says, Abby was suffering from something that sounds very much like clinical depression. I was trying to imagine her state of mind the night she gave away her son.”
“Do the police have any ideas about how Abby ended up in that parking lot?”
“Uh-uh. The A-l Jewellery and Pawn Shop is in the industrial area, so the cops can’t count on information from residents, but they’re checking out cab companies to see if any driver picked up a fare on Toronto Street the night of the blizzard. And now that the police have traced the licence plate, the answers about Abby Michaels’s personal history will start coming.”
“Delia said the car’s owner was Hugh Michaels. Was he Abby’s husband?”
“Could be. Could also be a brother, a father, an uncle, or a cousin. All they know for certain is that Hugh Michaels is from Port Hope.”
“That’s where Alwyn Henry lives.”
“Your university friend who sent us our first Christmas card this year – the card with the picture of the cardinal at her bird feeder.”
“Not much gets by you, does it?” I said.
“Nope. I’m ever vigilant. Port Hope is a small town. Maybe you should give Alwyn a call. See what you can find out.”
“Maybe I should.” I curled my feet under me. “But not now. I’m warm; I’m next to you, and I’m drinking some very good Scotch. Let’s finish our drinks and go to bed and catch up with Gawain. We could use an escape from reality, and we’re at a good part: the lord of the castle has just led everyone off on the hunt. Gawain stayed back at the castle, and the lady of the house has just tiptoed into his room.”
The phone on the end table shrilled. “Let it ring,” Zack said.
“Can’t,” I said. “We have kids and grandkids – we’ve given hostages to fortune.”
I reached over, picked up the phone, and heard a voice I’d heard for the first time when I was a nineteen- year-old student at the University of Toronto. Alwyn Henry was a talker, and for thirty-seven years, I had revelled in my role as her listener. As a rule, her words tumbled over one another as if life was too short to say all she had to say about her many passions – teaching, bird watching, poetry, theatre, cooking, fine wines, travel, photography – but that night, the bounce was gone from her voice. “Joanne, I don’t know where to start with this… ”
“Is it about Abby Michaels?” I said.
“So you know that she’s dead,” Alwyn said. “Calling you was just a shot in the dark, but I thought with your media contacts you might have some information.”
“I do,” I said. “Can you hold for a minute?” I put my hand over the receiver. “It’s Alwyn Henry. How much should I tell her?”
“Play it by ear,” Zack said. “See what you can get in return. If Jacob’s father is in the picture, we should know. You can certainly say that Jacob is with Abby’s birth mother.”
I took my hand off the receiver. “Sorry, Alwyn. There was something here I had to take care of. So, do you want to go first or shall I?”
Her laugh was ragged. “You know me. I rush in where angels fear to tread, but I should tell you this isn’t just a matter of small-town curiosity. I’m calling on behalf of Abby’s partner. Her name is Nadine Perrault. Two hours ago, she learned Abby had been murdered. The police apparently traced the licence on Abby’s car, and they called Abby’s house. Nadine answered. The authorities won’t tell her anything. Nadine is, understandably, beside herself. Her biggest concern of course is Jacob. She’s planning to fly to Regina tomorrow to get him. She and I teach English together at Trinity College School. She came to my house tonight because she needs someone to cover her classes. I agreed of course.”
Something inside me twisted and tightened. “Is she there now?”
“She went out to get some air. She’ll be back.”
“Alwyn, you’ll have to talk her out of coming to Regina. I don’t know what Nadine Perrault’s understanding of the situation is, but Abby Michaels made it clear that she wants Jacob to be with her birth mother. She handed Jacob over to the family before she was attacked.”
“Birth mother? This doesn’t make any sense,” Alwyn said. “Abby’s mother was Peggy Michaels. I’ve known her for forty years. There must be some mistake.”
“There’s no mistake,” I said. “We know the biological mother, and we know the circumstances of Abby’s birth. The mother was at a point in her life where she didn’t feel she could raise a child, so she arranged for her baby to be adopted.”
“That’s not possible,” Alwyn said. “Hugh and I taught together for years at TCS, and I remember him and Peggy
