"With a vengeance," he said. "There are nights when I'd give five years of my life for the sight of organ meat."

The camomile tea was bracing and the cookies, mola.s.ses and whole wheat flour laced with wheat germ, were solid but tasty. Manda was as fascinated by babies and cats as Taylor was, so the table talk was lively.

After Taylor and I had said our goodbyes and started off down the sidewalk, I turned to look back at Craig and Manda. She was standing in front of him, enclosed in the circle of his arms. On the front door behind them was the wreath of dried apple slices and berries Manda had made to celebrate fertility. As they waved, I was grateful that the curse of the Seven Dwarfs seemed to have pa.s.sed them by.

Taylor and I had lunch at McDonald's. While she ate, she made up a list of the names she would call her kitten, if, that is, she ever was to have a kitten. I thought of her birthday three days away and wondered how much grief Sadie and Rose's aging hearts could take.

Taylor was still talking about kittens when I pulled up in our driveway. Angus was home. I could hear the rhythmic pounding of the CD upstairs in his bedroom, but Hilda wasn't back yet. I took some chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s from the freezer and made a sauce of yogurt, lime juice, and ginger to put on them after they were grilled. We could have couscous and a cuc.u.mber salad with the chicken. A nutritionally faultless meal from the woman who'd let her daughter eat two Big Macs, a large fries, and a cherry pie for lunch.

It was close to 3:00 by the time Hilda got home, and she was buoyant.

"I don't need to ask how it went," I said. "Obviously, Carolyn Atcheson didn't bar the door against you."

"At first she almost did," Hilda said, "but once she invited me in and began to talk about Maureen Gault, she was unstoppable. I think it was cathartic for her."

"Good," I said. "Let's go in where it's comfortable and you can tell me about Carolyn's catharsis."

Hilda settled back into her favourite chair in the family room. "To start with," she said, "Maureen seems to have affected Carolyn's life profoundly, but I have the sense that, until today, she hasn't discussed the girl with anyone."

"Maureen Gault was just her student," I said. "Why wouldn't Carolyn talk about her?"

Hilda shrugged. "For the same reason most of us avoid talking about a situation we've bungled."

"What did she think she'd bungled with Maureen?"

Hilda's voice was grim. "Just about everything. Joanne, Carolyn says Maureen Gault was pathological, and I trust her a.s.sessment. She's a woman who uses language carefully."

"If she knew Maureen was pathological, she must have brought in a professional," I said.

"It wasn't quite that simple. According to Carolyn, Maureen seemed normal enough when she started high school. In fact, she was quite a success socially. There was always a group of girls around anxious to do her bidding, and she thrived."

"What went wrong?"

"Maureen overplayed her hand. According to Carolyn, she had to dominate every situation and manipulate every relationship. The more she could manipulate and humiliate her little group, the better Maureen seemed to feel about herself. Of course, it didn't take long for the girls to grow weary of being props for Maureen's self-esteem. They tried to break away and that's when the trouble began."

"Serious trouble?" I asked.

"Serious enough. There were threats. A girl opened her locker one morning and found her schoolbooks smeared with human faeces. Another girl's house was broken into, and her clothes were shredded. Another's dog was killed."

"And the school let this go on?"

"Carolyn went to Maureen's mother with the name of a psychiatrist. Of course, Mrs. Gault was furious. She kept demanding proof."

"And there was none," I said.

Hilda shook her head. "Maureen Gault was too clever to carry out the revenge herself. She kept her distance and used a confederate."

"Kevin Tarpley," I said.

Hilda nodded. "Kevin Tarpley."

"And they were never caught," I said.

"No," said Hilda. "They were never caught."

I leaned forward in my chair. "Hilda, did Carolyn Atcheson say anything about what Maureen and Kevin did to Ian?"

Hilda looked away.

"What did she say?" I asked.

Hilda's voice was low with anger. "She said she wasn't surprised. She always knew it was just a matter of time before Maureen discovered murder."

That night, as Hilda and I were finishing our after-dinner coffee, the phone rang. It was Jane O'Keefe asking if we could get together. I arranged to meet her at her office at the Women's Health Centre the next day, after cla.s.ses. After I wrote the time of our meeting on my calendar, I decided I might as well fill up my dance card, and I called Tess Malone. She agreed to meet me in the Beating Heart offices at 2:00 that same day.

When I hung up, I was satisfied. The work of Sister Mouse was going well.

CHAPTER.

8.

The Regina Women's Medical Centre was located between a Mr. Buns Bakery and a bicycle store in a strip mall on the north side of the city. Jane had told me they chose the s.p.a.ce because the parking was free and the rent was cheap, but there had been no penny-pinching in the reception area. Jonquil walls blazed with Georgia O'Keeffe desert prints, a bra.s.s bowl of fat copper chrysanthemums glowed on the reception desk, and the crystal clarity of a Mozart horn concerto drifted from a CD player on the antique credenza in front of the window. The Women's Medical Centre had been decorated co-operatively by a group of pro-choice women in the city, and despite what Tess Malone told the public, the Centre had ended up owing more to Better Homes and Gardens than to Sodom and Gomorrah.

The receptionist had just finished announcing me, when Jane came out and motioned me to follow her down the hall. My gynecologist's office was decorated with posters from pharmaceutical companies: a pictorial history of contraceptive devices, a cross section of the uterus a instructive, but not exactly trompe-l'oeil. Jane's walls were filled with some serious female art: a Jane Freilicher amaryllis, so lush I wanted to touch it; an exuberant Miriam Schapiro abstract; an electric Faith Ringgold story quilt. On Jane's desk in a chased silver frame was a photograph of her with Sylvie. They looked to be in their middle teens. Tanned and grinning, they faced the camera. Life was ahead.

Jane didn't waste any time getting to the point. "Howard called," she said.

"I thought he might," I said.

"He said he told you about Gary and me."

I nodded.

She looked at me levelly, "And ...?"

"And I don't understand. You're so close to Sylvie and you're too ... smart, I guess, is the word I'm looking for."

Jane raised her eyebrows and laughed. "Smart has nothing to do with it, Jo. This morning I had breakfast with a cardiologist who smokes two packs a day. Ask her about the relationship between what we know and what we do."

"I didn't mean to sound judgemental," I said. "I know this isn't any of my business. But, Jane, you know, don't you, that when I talked to Howard I wasn't just digging for dirt."

Jane smiled. "You've never struck me as the logical successor to Julie Evanson. I can read, Jo. I've seen the papers. But can't you leave the investigating to the police?"

"No," I said, "I can't. Jane, I didn't kill Maureen Gault and, in my more optimistic moments, I'm reasonably sure the police are going to find that out, too. But until they do, I'm in limbo. Every day, I just get up and go through the motions, and it's getting to be a drag."

"I know. The sword-hanging-over-your-head syndrome. We see it all the time in patients dealing with serious illness. The conventional wisdom is that the best way to deal with a hanging sword is to grab hold of it, take control."

"That's what I'm trying to do," I said.

"Fair enough," she said. "What do you need to know?"

"Could we start with the caucus office party the night before Ian died? There were all those undercurrents. Something was going on. Do you remember anything at all that might be significant?"

Jane winced. "I hardly remember anything about that party except that it was one of the worst nights of my life. For starters, it was the end of my relationship with Gary. I guess we'd been heading in that direction since Jess was born, but I loved him, Jo. I even had this fantasy about Gary and Jess and me becoming a family. Crazy stuff, but when you let your loins do your thinking, you're not always rational. Anyway, as soon as I saw Gary that night, I took him down to my office, threw my arms around him, and tried to rekindle the flame."

"And it didn't rekindle," I said.

She shook her head. "I asked him if he'd told Sylvie about us, and he looked at me as if I was insane. No, scratch that. He looked at me as if he didn't have the slightest idea what I was talking about.

"I went back to the party and did the sensible thing. I've been drunk twice in my life. Once was the night I finished exams in my last year at medical school, and the other time was that night. I was so drunk I don't even know how I got home. I didn't wake up until the next afternoon. When I remembered what had happened with Gary, I rolled over and went back to sleep. I didn't get out of bed for a day and a half. The morning I finally decided I'd better pull myself back together, I turned on the radio and heard that Ian had been killed. It seemed as if the whole world had gone to h.e.l.l." Jane raked her fingers through her hair. "That was the worst winter."

"Yes," I agreed, "it was." I took a deep breath. "Jane, do you remember anything else about the party? Howard told me Ian was talking to an old Ukrainian man. Did you see them?"

Jane's eyes widened. "I saw the old Ukrainian man, but he wasn't with Ian. He was with Tess." She laughed. "It would have been funny if it hadn't been so awful. After my true love walked out on me and I was well on my way to getting p.i.s.sed, I decided to step out and get some air. I wanted to get as far as possible from Gary, so I didn't go down the main stairs. I went over to the west wing and went down those stairs at the end of the hall. When I got to the landing, what to my wondering eyes should appear but Tess Malone grappling with a gentleman and making one h.e.l.l of a racket. In my less than competent state, I thought they were having s.e.x, then I noticed Tess wasn't crying out in ecstasy. She was trying to get away from him. I went over to them, and that put an end to it."

"Was he trying to rape her?" I asked.

"No, not that. I don't know what he was trying to do, but I remember he said something like, 'You stick your nose in, and now I got no more daughter.' Does that mean anything?"

"Not to me," I said. "Was that before Tess was involved with Beating Heart?"

Jane snorted. "Sometimes I think Tess has been involved with Beating Heart since she was a beating heart, but this was before she was there full time. Do you think the scene with the old man could be connected with her work there?"

"Sounds like it might, doesn't it?" I said. "Tess encourages the girl to go through with her pregnancy and something goes wrong." I picked up my coat. "I don't know, but I'm going to ask the person who will."

The offices of Beating Heart occupied the second storey of an old building on Pasqua Street. It was less upscale than the Women's Medical Centre, just a single big room with a couple of small alcoves that I guessed were used for counselling. Here, the music was chartbusters from a radio on an untended desk, and the pictures on the wall were of the graphic didactic school. Tess was standing at a table covered in boxes. On the window ledge behind her, a cigarette burned in a yellow ashtray.

She smiled when she saw me, but, for once, the smile was thin, and her manner was guarded.

"I suppose you'd like to get right to your questions," she said.

"Yeah," I said. "I would."

I looked at her. Every golden curl was sh.e.l.lacked into place, and she was wearing a jumpsuit that looked vaguely military. The idea of her grappling with anyone seemed ludicrous. But Jane's memory on that point, at least, had seemed clear.

I took a deep breath and began. "Tess, I need to know more about that party at the caucus office the night before Ian died. Jane O'Keefe remembers seeing you in a ... situation ... with an old Ukrainian man."

A flush started at Tess's neckline and moved slowly up to her face. "Jane was drunk that night. Did she tell you that?"

"Yes," I said, "she did."

Tess picked up her cigarette and drew heavily on it. "Well, she was seeing things."

"I don't think so," I said. "Howard saw the man, too."

She seemed to flinch. "With me?"

"Was he with you?" I asked.

"He had some sort of const.i.tuency problem."

"To do with his daughter," I said.

This time there was no mistaking Tess's reaction. She looked as if she'd taken a blow. "I don't remember," she said.

"Think," I said. "It could be important."

"It was six years ago, Joanne. I told you I don't remember, and I think you're out of line hectoring me like this."

"Tess, I don't mean to hector, but this isn't a tea party. I'm in a lot of trouble. Just tell me the truth. I can't promise I won't repeat what you tell me, but I can promise I won't reveal anything I don't have to."

She took another drag of her cigarette. "There's nothing to tell, Joanne. It was a man with a const.i.tuency problem."

"Do you remember his name?"

"No." She picked up a cloth from the desk, opened the box nearest her and removed a plastic foetus. Then, very gently, she began to wipe the dust from its moon-shaped skull. "I think you'd better go now," she said.

I moved closer to her. "I'm going to keep asking questions, Tess. If you remember anything, let me know."

She didn't answer me. She put the foetus she'd been dusting back in the box and picked up another. This one was larger, but still snail-like, wrapped in on itself, otherworldly.

"Tess, do you remember how, in the old days, when we got into a battle about policy, you used to invite everybody over to your house to eat?" I moved close and put my hand on her arm. "You used to say there wasn't a quarrel in the world that a pan of cabbage rolls and a bottle of rye couldn't straighten out. Do you want to find a place with cabbage rolls and see if we can straighten this out?"

She didn't answer. But when she turned to replace the foetus in the box, I saw her eyes were filled with tears. It was like seeing a general cry.

My pulse was racing when I stood on the landing outside Beating Heart. Tess knew the old man's name, and I was sure that when she had a chance to think things over, she would tell me. She was a decent person, and she would want to help. I looked at my watch. Two-thirty. Taylor wouldn't be home for another hour. I had time to find out how that last evening had looked from another seat at the head table.

Gary Stephens's office was in the same building as my dentist's. It was a cheerless cinderblock building on the corner of Broad and 12th. At the top of the stairs on the second floor was a sign with Gary's name and degree in block letters and an arrow pointing toward his law office. When I opened the door, I had two surprises. The first was that Ian's old secretary, Lorraine Bellegarde, was behind the front desk. The other was that she was obviously in the final stages of packing up the office.

When she saw me, she came over and took both my hands in hers. Lorraine was so tiny it seemed she could buy most of her clothes in the children's department, but there was nothing child-like about her organizational skills or her grasp of politics. Ian's trust in her had been absolute, and she had been a friend to us both. Lorraine and I had lost touch in the last few years, and as we stood, surrounded by packing boxes, grinning at each other, I wondered why.

"What are you doing here?" I said.

"Trying to get all this stuff out before the landlord catches me."

"Gary's moving his office?"

"Well, he's moving out of here. But this is all going into storage." She picked up a roll of masking tape and cut a length from it. "I don't know what Gary's going to do. I guess, as they say, he's exploring his options."

"I can't imagine you working for a man like him."