sunroom to look at the painting she was working on. She had started using oils that summer, and her talent, a gift from her birth mother, the artist Sally Love, was declaring itself with a sureness that filled me with awe. The picture on her easel was of Angus, Eli, and Taylor herself watching the dragon-boat races, and it throbbed with the energy of the contest. Spikes of light radiated from the sun, and as the dragon boats slashed through the water, they sent up a spray as effervescent as joy.
Alex gazed at the painting thoughtfully, then he took Taylor’s hand in his. “Nice work,” he said.
She scrutinized his face carefully. “You really think it’s okay?”
“Yeah,” Alex said, “I really think it’s okay.”
Content, my daughter picked up her brush and began shading the underside of a cloud.
I looked at Alex. “I don’t think we’re needed here,” I said.
He grinned. “I think you’re right.”
I made us a pitcher of iced tea. We took it out to the deck and sat on the steps.
Alex closed his eyes and touched his cold glass against his forehead.
“Headache?” I asked.
“It’s manageable,” he said.
I turned to him. “Ready to talk about Eli?”
Alex shook his head. “There’s not much to say. It’s as if he’s decided to shut down. He doesn’t talk. His face is a mask. Even the way he moves is different – as if suddenly his body doesn’t belong to him. The psychiatrist who’s taking Dr. Rayner’s emergencies is going to see him this morning. The new guy’s name is Dan Kasperski, and he specializes in adolescents. I like his approach. When I started to tell him Eli’s history, he asked me to wait and tell him later. Kasperski says it’s best to start with a clean slate, no preconceptions; that way he can put himself into the patient’s situation and pick up on what Eli thinks is important.”
“It sounds as if Eli’s in good hands,” I said.
Alex sipped his tea. “Let’s hope.”
“I haven’t thanked you for stepping in last night,” I said. “Going downtown to identify her friend would have been very painful for Hilda.”
“And unnecessary,” Alex said. “Justine Blackwell had three daughters. They did their duty. Apparently it was quite a scene.”
“The daughters made a scene?”
“No. From what I hear, they were quite businesslike. The problem was with the pathology staff. They were tripping all over one another to gawk at Lucy Blackwell.”
“It’s not every day you get a chance to gawk at a legend,” I said. “When I was in my twenties, I was so proud that a Canadian girl was hanging out with Dylan and Joan Baez. I think I’ve got all of Lucy Blackwell’s old albums. It’s funny, I hadn’t thought about her for ages, then I heard her interviewed on the radio this summer. She’s just come out with a CD boxed set. It’s called The Sorcerer’s Smile. I’ve asked Angus to get the word out that’s what I want for my birthday.”
Alex laughed softly. “Angus has already got the word out. I might even be able to get you an autograph. Sherm Zimbardo is the M.E. on this one, and he said that Lucy Blackwell was very co-operative.”
I shuddered. “Poor woman, having to go down to the morgue and see her mother like that.”
“At least she was spared the crime scene.” Alex’s face was sombre. “Justine Blackwell did not die easily. She was bludgeoned to death. We haven’t recovered the weapon yet, but Sherm thinks she was probably killed on that big flat stone at the centre of the monument.” He looked at me questioningly. “Do you know the one I mean? It’s got the Boy Scout motto on it.”
“I know the one,” I said.
“Sherm thinks that after the first couple of blows, Justine Blackwell fell back against the centre stone. The killer finished her off there, then dragged her over and propped her up where we found her.”
“You mean the killer deliberately moved her to one of those stones with the Boy Scout virtues on them?” I said.
“Is that what they are?” he asked. “We didn’t have a Boy Scout troop out at Standing Buffalo.”
“Too bad,” I said. “You would have looked mighty fetching in those short pants.”
Alex’s face was pensive. “I wonder what we’re supposed to make of the stone Justine Blackwell was propped up against?”
“Which one was it?” I asked.
“ ‘Trustworthy,’ ” Alex said drily.
It was almost 9:30 when Alex left. I walked him to the car and watched as his silver Audi disappeared