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sorry,” I said.
    Dr. Goetz’s smile was a rictus. “So am I,” he said. “For the record, I’m not the son of a bitch Brock believes I am. I’m just a guy who’s caught in a trap. First I’m forced to leave the man I love. Now I’ve got the cops at my doorasking if I’m involved in some kind of plot to wreck the opening here today.”
    “Are you?”
    He looked away.
    “You knew about the plan, didn’t you?” I said.
    Michael Goetz raised his chin defiantly. “Indirectly. There was nothing I could do to stop it.” Before I could pursue the point, he turned on his heel and walked away.
    When I found Zack again, he handed me a plate of food. “The potato salad was going fast,” he said. “So I am selflessly donating my share to you.”
    “You’re a giver,” I said.
    Zack frowned. “You don’t look like a woman who’s just about to chow down on a double portion of potato salad.”
    “My encounter with Michael Goetz was disturbing,” I said. “He seems like he’s falling apart, Zack.”
    “I gather he’s made a number of lousy decisions lately.”
    “Michael said he was forced to leave the man he loved.”
    Zack ripped off a chicken leg. “That’s bullshit. The guy’s a psychiatrist. He must have a few insights.”
    “None that are doing him any good,” I said. “Oh, and something else. According to Michael Goetz, Brock and Margot got pregnant the old-fashioned way.”
    “Brock’s gay,” Zack said.
    “He and Margot both wanted a child. Obviously, they worked out the technicalities.” I took a forkful of potato salad. “Cumin,” I said. “I love potluck. There are always surprises.”
    “So did the good doctor have anything more to say?”
    “Just that the police have been to see him.”
    Zack bit into his chicken and nodded approvingly. “The chicken man knows his stuff.” He snagged a tomato from my plate. “I’ll bet having the cops show up at his door was a shock for Goetz.”
    “I’m sure it was,” I said. “Zack, I know Michael Goetz treated Brock badly, but I felt sorry for him today.”
    “You have a tender heart,” Zack said. “But at the moment, we have more pressing concerns than Michael Goetz. The fireworks start in an hour. They last thirty minutes. If we make it through the fireworks, we’re home free.”
    My nerves twanged. “Bite your tongue,” I said. “Ninety minutes can be a lifetime. I’m not going to exhale until every single child here is safely on the way home.”

CHAPTER
2
    The truck with the fireworks had arrived on the green and the sun was beginning to set when the speeches began.
    The program opened with a prayer from Ernest Beauvais, the elder who had been with the Racette-Hunter working team since it began a year and a half earlier. A temporary stage had been set up on the north end of the green for the speeches. As Ernest approached the microphone and his deep bass rumbled out the prayer he used to start all our meetings, I relaxed. Ernest spoke in Cree, but I knew what he was saying. “Great Spirit – Grant us strength and dignity to walk a new trail.”
    Margot was the first speaker, and from the moment she stepped onto the stage holding her freshly bathed nine-month-old daughter, the crowd loved her. She spoke briefly and movingly about our collective responsibility to the next generation and the role Racette-Hunter hoped to play in giving all the children and adults in our city a chance to realize their potential. The audience was rapt.
    Then Margot introduced the mayor, and it was immediately clear that something was wrong. Scott Ridgewayalways bounded on stage to show that he was pleased as punch to be wherever he happened to be. That night, he hung back. Finally, an exasperated Slater Doyle all but frog-marched the mayor up the accessibility ramp and pushed him towards the microphone.
    I had seen Scott Ridgeway many times. A bland blond with a cheerleader’s smile and a fondness for generalities, he was always smooth, but that