me.”
Taylor intercepted me in the front hall. “Where are you going?”
“Just to run an errand,” I said. “Angus is here.”
“Wait!” Taylor fell to her knees and plugged in her tree. “You’ve got to see this.” In the blink of an eye, a hundred twinkling stars lit the celebrity cherubs, and somewhere deep in the tree’s flocked heart a computer chip began to play “The Way We Were.”
“You always say things work out the way they’re supposed to,” she said, sighing contentedly. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever.”
I kissed the top of her head. “Hold that thought,” I said.
Albert Street was tough sledding. Stuck behind a snowplough, I grew white-knuckled with frustration and fear. As I crawled in the vehicle’s wake, I replayed my conversation with Jill. No matter how I construed her words, they signalled trouble. There was more cause for anxiety in the outside world. Except for my Volvo and the snowplough, every vehicle headed south on Albert Street had a member of the Regina City Police in the driver’s seat. When we came to the turnoff for the gallery, I tensed, hoping against hope the squad cars would continue south, towards a disaster that had nothing to do with anyone I loved. But as the caravan turned east onto the road that led to the MacKenzie, I knew that the longest night of the year had just gotten longer.
The visitors’ parking lot was so choked with snow that I didn’t even give it a second glance. I parked my Volvo in the first available staff space and headed towards the gallery. The lobby was blue with uniformed cops. I took a deep breath and forged ahead as if I had a right to be there. Adopting an air of entitlement was a trick I’d learned from Angus, and that night it got me through the front doors. Fate – benevolent or malevolent – intervened immediately. The first officer I ran into in the lobby was Alex Kequahtooway. He was a man with enviable control of his emotions, but I knew every inch of his body, and I recognized the throb in his temple as a sign that he was suffering.
The impulse to reach out to him was almost overwhelming, but remembering the pain of our breakup, I kept my hands jammed in my pockets. “What happened?” I said.
“Evan MacLeish is dead. His carotid artery was slit with the knife they used to cut the cake – some kind of hunting knife.”
“It’s called an ulu,” I said.
“Well now it’s called a murder weapon,” Alex said dryly.
“Do you know who did it?”
I could almost hear the clang as he shut me out. “This is a police investigation, Joanne.”
I slid off my backpack. “I have some clothes in here for Jill. Can I take them to her?”
“I’ll check to see if the forensic guys have everything they need from her.”
“Is she a suspect?”
Alex started towards the elevator. Before he touched the button, he turned back to me. “You might as well come up with me.”
We stepped into the elevator together. “Is the body still up here?” I asked.
Alex’s surprise was genuine. “Why would it be here? Evan MacLeish was killed in that snow fort on the east lawn.”
“What was he doing out there?” I asked.
Alex shot me a withering glance. “Getting murdered,” he said.
When the elevator doors opened, the sight that greeted us was eye-popping: Martha Stewart meets “ COPS.” The area in which Jill and Evan had cut the cake was cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. The Rainbow Dancers were still strutting their stuff on the top tier of Kevin Hynd’s brilliantly inspired confection, but the glowing cloth on which the cake-tray sat was dark with traceries of fingerprint powder. Guests who had decided to stay until the last drop of Cuvee Paradis Brut had been drunk clutched individual cake boxes and talked uneasily to note-taking cops.
My eyes darted around the room, seeking Jill. Finally, I spotted her sitting on a banquette in the shadows at the far end of the gallery. On one side of her was a female police officer, on the other was Kevin Hynd. The cop, the bride, and the pastry chef – even on a night that was adding new dimension to the term “surreal,” it was a bizarre grouping.
No one stopped me as I walked towards them, but when I got close, the sweet smell of blood almost gagged me. I kept moving and when Jill held out her arms, I moved to embrace her.
“Stand back.” The police officer’s voice was not unkind. “There’s a fair amount of blood on her dress.”
I slipped off my backpack and held it out to the officer. “I’ve brought some fresh clothes for her. Can she go somewhere to change?”
“Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,” Jill said, and the deadness in her voice chilled me.
“I’ll check with the inspector,” said the officer, a rosy brunette whose badge read Maria Ciarniello.
I waited until Officer Ciarniello was out of earshot, then I turned to Jill. “You need a lawyer,” I said.
Kevin shrugged. “She has a lawyer. Me.”
I took in his Jerry Garcia beard and white caterer’s jacket. “Well, why the hell not?” I said.
Amazingly, Jill began to laugh. She laughed until the tears streamed down her face. When her laughter ended in a hiccupping sob, she looked around. “I don’t suppose either of you has a Kleenex.”
“I do,” I said, handing one to her.
The young police officer came back. “Inspector Kequahtooway says you can change, but I’ll need to be with you so I can bag your gown for forensics.”
Jill nodded wearily. “You can bring in the whole police force if you have to. Just let me get the blood off me.”
Another cop came over and handed Officer Ciarniello a plastifilm bag eerily like the bag that had held Taylor’s Angels Among Us tree. “Let’s go,” she said.
The four of us went down in the elevator together. Officer Ciarniello followed us into the bathroom; Kevin Hynd stationed himself outside.
The largest of the women’s restrooms at the gallery had two parts: a small area in which women could change their babies and, through another door, the usual stalls, sinks, and mirrors. Maria Ciarniello positioned herself in the doorway that separated the two rooms and slid on a pair of surgical gloves. Jill turned her back to the mirrors, unzipped her beautiful blood-stained dress, and let it fall. Like a zealous salesperson in a top-of-the- line shop, Officer Ciarniello caught the gown before it hit the floor and placed it in the evidence bag. There was a spot of blood on Jill’s strapless long-line bra. When she noticed it, she began fumbling with the hooks on the back.
“I’ll get it,” I said. I undid her hooks and Jill ripped off the bra and handed it to Officer Ciarniello. After Jill stepped out of her panties, and Officer Ciarniello dutifully retrieved them, my friend turned to me naked. I took a washcloth from the backpack, ran a sink full of warm water, squirted soap on the cloth, and began to wipe her body. She was as still as a sick child. When I’d rinsed her body, I reached for a towel. Jill shook her head violently. “No, there might still be some blood.” Obediently, I refilled the sink, soaped the washcloth, and repeated the process. It was a long while before I could persuade Jill that she was clean. When finally she was convinced that not one drop of Evan MacLeish’s blood remained on her body, she picked up the towel and patted her skin dry. “You understand why I had to be sure,” she said.
“I understand,” I said. “Now come on, let’s get you dressed. It’s time to go home.”
CHAPTER
5
Jill was silent as she pulled on the slacks and sweater I’d brought, but after she’d run a comb through her hair, she turned to me. “I didn’t kill him,” she said. “I got the blood on me when I found his body.”
I indicated Officer Ciarniello with my eyes. “We don’t need to talk about this now,” I said.
“But I need you to know,” she said.
