Free The Early Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn by Gail Bowen

life is about to begin again in earnest. It’s a time of hope, and that morning, in spite of everything, I could feel my spirits rise as I ticked off items on Angus’s list.
    I saw her by accident. When I was walking toward the boys’ department, I happened to look up and spot the televisions, a bank of them, different makes and models and sizes. And on the screen of every one of them was the face of Eve Boychuk. Twenty Eves looking out at me through twenty pairs of unreadable eyes.
    I walked over and turned the sound up on one of the TVS . She was amazing – no other word for it. She was reeling from the murder of her husband, but she was opening up her fragile and private world to public scrutiny. Tanned and handsome in a simple blue cotton dress, she was leaning forward,telling the interviewer that she wanted her husband’s funeral to be something people would remember all their lives. The camera pulled in for a close-up, and there, in the large appliance section of the Bay, Eve was saying that her “dearest wish” was that her husband’s body lie in state in the rotunda of the legislature.
    I couldn’t believe my ears. Twenty Eves coolly rebuffing the interviewer’s timid reminder that lying in state was an honour reserved for premiers and lieutenant governors.
    “So many people loved Andy,” said all the Eves, “that I’m sure the premier wouldn’t be mean enough to deny people the chance to come to the city to say good-bye.” Oh, she was smooth. For the first time since his party had booted us out of office seven years before, I felt sorry for the baby-faced ex-linebacker who sat behind the big desk in the premier’s office. Eve had flummoxed him.
    She had, as it turned out, flummoxed us all. When I walked in the front door of our house, Angus barrelled into me. He was on his way to play baseball, he yelled over his shoulder. I made him come inside to check out his new school supplies.
    “Awesome,” he said, deadpan. Then on the porch he turned. “Mum, Mr. Micklejohn has called about eighty-three times and he sounds like he’s going to cry.”
    When I picked up the telephone to call Dave, he was already on the line. Not a word about the coincidence of my trying to call him when he was calling me, not a word of greeting. The man who prided himself on taking care of details was starting to crumble. There was no preamble, just, “Jo, something’s going on with Eve. I thought she was going to leave everything to me, then this morning, before I’d even had time for my morning ablutions, she was on the phone giving me directions about the funeral. She is intruding in everything from the choice of pallbearers to the food at thereception. ‘No perogies, no cabbage rolls.’ That’s what she says. Can you imagine? Did you catch her act on television this morning? She is not the woman we thought she was.”
    “Fun is fun till somebody starts to mutate,” I said. “Angus has that written on his science notebook.”
    “Kids,” said Dave. “Anyway, what do you think’s up with Eve?”
    “I think she’s showing us she can play the game, too. I think she’s showing us that we underestimated her because she wasn’t part of our little circle. And don’t forget, she’s suffering.”
    “All of us are suffering, dear. But we’re professionals. We know how to do things right. I don’t think we should have to restructure Andy’s funeral as a confidence-building experience for Eve. However, I don’t know what options we have. The frame of mind she’s in – who knows what she’d do? I need some guidance here, Jo.
    “In that case, my advice is to go along with her. Let her give us some general ideas and tell her we’ll work them out. We’ve got the organization. You saw to that.”
    At the other end of the phone, I could feel Dave preening. He had a right to.
    In the last year of his life, Andy Boychuk had the best organization the province had ever seen, and in large part it was due to Dave