organs of delight.”
“It’ll be over soon,” I said. “I just wish I was there with you.”
“But you will come when the baby’s born?”
“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”
After we hung up, I reached under the bed and pulled out the cradle board that Alex had made for Mieka and Greg’s baby. The hide bag stitched to the board was as soft as moss, and it smelled of woodsmoke. A newborn would feel safe in its snug confines. Later, the cradle board would hold the baby tight against its parent as it learned to keep a careful eye on the wonders and the terrors of the world.
I slid the cradle board back under the bed and walked downstairs. The heat and the humidity in the closed-up house were almost palpable, and I opened the front door to let in some fresh air. On the cedar chest in the front hall, Taylor’s new tartan backpack bulged, waiting to be grabbed by its owner as she sped out the door, eager to seize all the learning and fun Grade 2 had to offer. Ordinarily, I loved fall days with their heady mix of elegy for the summer past and anticipation of adventures to come, but this September was different, and as Rose and I headed for our run around the lake, I wondered if the heat would ever stop pressing down on us, making our nerves jump and our spirits sink.
By the time we got back, my hair was curling damply, and my clothes were soaked with sweat. I grabbed the newspaper off the porch and went inside to get Rose a bowl of fresh water and to plug in the coffee maker. As I waited for the coffee to perk, I glanced at the front page. The story of Justine Blackwell’s murder was above the fold. The picture the editors had chosen was a formal one of Justine robed for court. With her fair hair swept back into a smooth chignon and her coolly intelligent gaze, she seemed an unlikely candidate for grisly murder.
The story accompanying the photograph was circumspect and predictable: a dry but factual account of the murder, a review of Justine’s legal career, a brief history of her personal life. No surprises, but the final sentence of the piece was unexpected: “Longtime friend Hilda McCourt announced that funeral plans for Madame Justice Blackwell were pending.”
When Hilda came in, I held the paper out to her. It was 6:45, but she was already dressed for the day in a trim mint sheath, with a mandarin collar and neck-to-knee mother-of-pearl frog fastenings.
“You’re famous,” I said.
She took the paper, glimpsed at the story, and frowned. “I was afraid my name would be mentioned.”
“How did the paper get hold of you?”
“Lucy Blackwell gave them my name and your number,” Hilda said. “Joanne, I apologize for yet another intrusion in your home. This is becoming a distressing pattern.”
“Don’t give it a second thought,” I said. “But I don’t understand why Lucy would decide that you should be the one dealing with the press.”
Hilda sighed. “Neither do I. But according to Lucy, I was the unanimous choice. Apparently, Tina Blackwell is having a difficult time accepting her mother’s death. Her sisters think she’s in no state for media scrutiny. They’ve concluded that since Justine asked me to protect her interests, I might as well act as an intermediary with the press.”
I felt a rush of annoyance. Hilda was a wonder, but she was an eighty-three-year-old wonder, and she had just been handed an open-ended duty.
As always, Hilda was quick to read my face. “You’re not convinced I’m the best choice.”
I shook my head. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re the best choice for any job you choose to undertake. I’m just not certain you should have been asked to undertake this one.”
“It’s been busy, I’ll grant you that. Just after you left to meet Alex last night, I had a call from the journalist who is responsible for this.” Hilda tapped the Blackwell story with a fingernail freshly painted in her favourite Love That Red. “Later, there were other members of the press. I’m afraid your house was photographed, Joanne.”
I felt a stab of irritation, not at Hilda, but at the intrusion. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, but my voice lacked conviction.
Hilda leaned towards me. “Maybe it would be easier all around if I went back to Saskatoon. With facsimile machines and my message manager, I could handle everything from there, and you’d be