The door to Solange’s office was open. She had visitors: Livia Brook was there, her poppy shawl loosely knotted over a white turtleneck, and – bad luck for me – Ann Vogel was there, too. Six months earlier, Ann had claimed a new identity as Naama. Now it appeared she had metamorphosed again. As Naama, she had been a woman who flowed: shoulder-length hair that streamed behind her, diaphanous, ankle-length skirts and loosely cut, filmy blouses that floated as she walked through the halls. Now her hair was henna-burnished and buzzed into a Joan of Arc cut, and she was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and Converse high-tops. The attempt to ape Solange was an act of such teenage hero worship, I was embarrassed for both women, but Ann was beyond shame.
When she spotted me, her irises became pinpoints of loathing. “This is a private meeting,” she said.
“Then I won’t intrude,” I said. I smiled at Livia and walked over to Solange. “When you’re free,” I said, “I’d like to talk to you about your Web site.”
Solange nodded assent, but Ann Vogel wasn’t about to give anyone a graceful compromise. “The women in our group have no secrets from one another,” she said tightly, “but, of course, you wouldn’t understand about sisterhood.”
“I’m all for sorority,” I said. “I’m just not a big fan of hate groups. Incidentally, Ann, if I were you, I’d let the buzz cut grow out. I’m not sure the paramilitary look works for you.”
“You really are a bitch, Joanne.” She enunciated each word separately, Bette Davis style.
Solange raised a finger to silence her. “Joanne is not our enemy,” she said. She turned towards me; the bruised-eye pain of her gaze made it difficult not to look away. “You have a concern about the Web site?” she said. The words seemed pulled from her, as if even articulating a sentence caused her anguish. I thought of the French phrase Elle vit a reculons. She lives reluctantly.
It would have been unconscionable to add to her grief. “What you’ve done is perfect, Solange,” I said. “The tributes to Ariel strike exactly the right note. It’s the hot link to the ‘Red Riding Hood’ site that troubles me.”
Ann was clearly furious. “Why should we listen to you? You’ve already sided against us once.”
I tried to isolate her. “I’ve never had a quarrel with anyone but you,” I said. “You used Kevin Coyle to forward your own agenda, and I don’t want to see you doing the same thing with Ariel’s death.”
Solange’s eyes grew wide. “Ariel’s death must not be used,” she said.
I could feel the momentum shifting to me, and I pressed ahead. “No,” I agreed, “it mustn’t. The night of the vigil, Molly Warren told me that what she feared more than anything was having Ariel’s death politicized. This tragedy is deeply personal for all of us.”
Ann’s eyes glinted. I had linked the words “political” and “personal”; for a fanatical feminist the bait was as irresistible as catnip to a Siamese.
I hurried on before she could pounce. “I know the catechism,” I said. “I know that the personal is political, but the whole purpose of the Web page is to let the people who cared about Ariel share their memories and their sense of loss. Later, we can think about larger implications, but the focus now should be on Ariel. Besides, linking her page to the ‘Red Riding Hood’ site is placing Ariel’s death in a political context that might not even be accurate. Kyle Morrissey hasn’t been charged with her murder. From what I’ve heard he may never be.”
“What do you mean?” Livia said.
“I mean the case is weak,” I said. “It’s possible that Ariel was killed by someone else. For all we know the murderer is a woman.”
Ann took a step towards me. Her fists were clenched, and she was shaking with rage. “Get out,” she said.
We were on the edge of real ugliness, but Livia stepped between us. She was pale, but in control. “Joanne, we’ll reconsider the ‘Red Riding Hood’ hot link. I’ll make certain that we give your suggestion a fair hearing.”
“But I can’t stick around to argue my own case.”
Livia took my arm and led me out into the hall. When she spoke her voice was low and intimate. “Given the history you share with some of the women who created the Web site, perhaps it would be best to let them discuss it privately. Joanne, you know this department is all I have now. Trust me to do the right thing.” She leaned forward and kissed my cheek.
Whether it was the poignant reference to our shared past, the familiar smell of Pears soap, or the brush of cool silk I felt when her poppy shawl touched my arm, I was drawn into her orbit. “All right,” I said, “I’ll trust you.”
Kevin was still hunched over my computer when I got back. When he heard my step, he started. “Well…?”
“They’re going to discuss it,” I said.
“What do you think our chances are?”
I cringed at being included in Kevin’s possessive pronoun, but I smiled at him. “Livia says we have to trust her. And I do.”
He scowled. “Well, I don’t. Why would I trust a woman who has wanted my head on a plate for two years?” He shrugged. “You’ve just given me all the justification I need for spending some of my dwindling savings on surveillance.”
“You’re going to hire somebody?”
“Good God, no. I’m going to buy a computer. I’ll find it easier to trust those handmaidens of the victim culture if I can keep an eye on them.” He started for the door, but when he came to the threshold he turned. “Thank you for being my net.”
“You didn’t need a net, just a push.”
He grinned, revealing more silver fillings than I’d seen in twenty years. A man with ancient dental work, a lens held on by masking tape, a limitless supply of white, short-sleeved polyester shirts, and an uncertain future. My heart went out to him.
“Be careful, Kevin.”
“In the computer store?”
“Everywhere,” I said.
Alone in my office, I was edgy. I picked up the phone and dialled.
When I heard Ed Mariani’s blithe greeting, I felt as if I’d re-established contact with the world as I knew it.
“Can I buy you lunch?” I asked.
“Only if you promise to bring along the latest photos of Madeleine at the lake.”
“I haven’t even taken the film in yet,” I said.
“And you call yourself a grandmother,” he said. “But I’ll still eat lunch with you. Does noon at the Faculty Club suit?”
“Noon is fine,” I said, “but let’s go off-campus. I’ve had enough of this place.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is. Ed, have you seen that Web page Solange has created for Ariel?”
“I didn’t even know it existed. I haven’t been at the university since last week.”
“Count your blessings,” I said. “But I’d be grateful if you’d check it out and another site it’s linked to: ‘Red Riding Hood.’ ”
“ ‘Red Riding Hood’ – that’s intriguing. You do know, don’t you, that both Luciano Pavarotti and Charles Dickens are on record as saying they identified strongly with that little girl. I’m past the age for tripping through the woods with a picnic basket, but if it pleases you, I’ll be more than happy to give the site a whirl. Now about lunch… have you got time for Druthers?”
“I do if you do,” I said.
“I have all the time in the world,” he said.
The comment was more than a pleasantry. The amount of time that elapsed between the placing of an order and the arrival of food at Druthers was legendary. So were the short fuses of the restaurant’s father-and- son chefs. More than one patron’s meal had ended abruptly when the father, hurling curses, exited through the restaurant’s front door, and the son, also hurling curses, exited through the back door. But the menu was inventive, the food invariably excellent, and the atmosphere, when father and son were in accord, sublime.
That spring afternoon, as I walked through the front door of the old converted house in the Cathedral district, it appeared that Ed and I were in luck. James and James Junior, father and son, greeted me with smiles and ushered me to the cool peace of the Button Room, my favourite of the restaurant’s three small dining rooms.
