The Early Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn Read Online Free PDF Page B

circle of crystal decanters gleaming in the sunlight; the spiky beauty of the vase of prairie lilies placed dead centre on the conference table.
    Eve turned to face me, picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder and shrugged. “Okay, let’s go find Dave Micklejohn.”
    I couldn’t believe how easy it had been. I had told Dave I was functioning. Apparently, I was functioning pretty well. As I grabbed my purse and headed out the door with Eve, I congratulated myself on a job well done.
    The congratulations were premature. I had forgotten what waited for us when we left the new wing and went into thecentre block of the hospital. It didn’t take long to be reminded. There they were – the
Good Morning, Canada
people and half a dozen others. Howard Dowhanuik and a woman wearing a white medical jacket with a hospital ID picture clipped to the lapel were standing behind a row of microphones. The woman was reading a statement. It was 7:05 and we were going live – coast to coast.
    I’d set her up. Eve had trusted me, and I’d led her right into shark-filled waters. It didn’t take long for one of the local journalists to recognize her, and the crew turned the cameras on us. Someone stuck a mike in Eve’s face and asked her if she had any idea who had murdered her husband. I was furious at the predatory smile on the face of the man who asked the question, and I was furious at myself. But Eve was wonderful. She said she knew people would understand if she didn’t say much, she was still shocked. She would help the police in every possible way. Funeral arrangements were in the hands of Andy’s friend, David Micklejohn. I looked at Dave, who was standing out of camera range beside the hospital spokesperson. I could see the relief on his face.
    I grabbed Eve’s arm, pulled her along with me and said, “Let’s get out of here. Walk as if you know where we’re going.” Together we strode purposefully toward the heavy glass doors that opened on the parking lot. After the chill of the conference room, the hot city air was like the blast from one of those automatic hand dryers in a public washroom.
    Eve is tall, five foot ten or so, at least a head taller than me. As we came to the fence that divided the doctors’ parking lot from the public one, she leaned down and whispered, “Do you know where we’re going?” We stopped and looked around. Not twenty feet away was an old maroon Buick – Andy’s car. Dave must have driven it to the hospital from the picnic. I pointed it out to Eve, and she rummaged in her purse and pulled out some keys.
    “Bingo,” she said. We slid into the front seat of that car as coolly as two women driving to the office. Eve slammed her door shut, then put her head on the steering wheel and began to cry great, noisy, racking sobs.
    She was entitled. So was I. But it wasn’t my turn. Today I was supposed to be the strong one. I sat beside her and played with the paper coffee cups that were lying on the dash. Dave and Andy and I had driven to the picnic in this car together. Just at the edge of town we’d stopped for ice cream and take-out coffee. These were our cups.
    Outside in the heat, barelegged women in bright summer dresses were walking to work. It seemed like such an ordinary thing to do that I felt a stab of envy as I watched them. Inside the Buick, Eve wept and I played with the paper cups. One, two, three – one for Dave, one for Andy, one for me.
    As suddenly as she had begun, Eve stopped crying. She reached over to the glove compartment and came up with a crushed box of moist towels. We each took a couple and wiped our hands and faces. Then Eve turned to me.
    “Joanne, I’m going home. I hate this city, and if Dave Micklejohn is taking care of the funeral, there’s nothing for me to do here. I should go and see Carey and tell him his father’s dead. We never know how much he understands, but I don’t want him to hear about Andy on television.” She had not mentioned murder.