A Colder Kind of Death by Gail Bowen

Author:Gail Bowen
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: McClelland & Stewart
Published: 2011-06-20T22:00:00+00:00

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 space 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 brass 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 – 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.

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