A Darkness of the Heart Read online

  Other Joanne Kilbourn Mysteries

  by Gail Bowen

  The Winners’ Circle

  What’s Left Behind

  12 Rose Street

  The Gifted

  Kaleidoscope

  The Nesting Dolls

  The Brutal Heart

  The Endless Knot

  The Last Good Day

  The Glass Coffin

  Burying Ariel

  Verdict in Blood

  A Killing Spring

  A Colder Kind of Death

  The Wandering Soul Murders

  Murder at the Mendel

  Deadly Appearances

  Copyright © 2018 Gail Bowen

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher—or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication data is available upon request

  ISBN 9780771009754

  Ebook ISBN 9780771009761

  Published simultaneously in the United States of America by McClelland & Stewart, a division of Penguin Random House Canada, a Penguin Random House Company

  Library of Congress Control Number is available upon request

  eBook design adapted from printed book design by Leah Springate

  Cover image: © Anton Belovodchenko / iStock photo / Getty Images

  McClelland & Stewart,

  a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited,

  a Penguin Random House Company

  www.penguinrandomhouse.ca

  v5.3.1

  a

  For Hildy Wren Bowen, Brett Bell, Max Bowen, Carrie Bowen, and Nathaniel Bowen with gratitude for your support, your laughter, and your love

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Joanne Kilbourn Mysteries by Gail Bowen

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER

  1

  I have always found the slyly botched logic of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland appealing, not just because of its playfulness, but because for much of my life, like Alice, the grasp I’ve had on my own identity has been slippery. On the December morning when I learned that the circumstances surrounding my conception were very different from what I had always believed, I was sixty years old. My four children were healthy and excited about their lives, and my five-year-long marriage to Zack Shreve had made me happier than I had ever imagined I could be. My professional life as an academic and political adviser had been engrossing and often rewarding, and in early retirement, I was enjoying time spent with my grandchildren and pursuing projects I hadn’t had time for when I was at work. My life was full, and I was content.

  But the previous year and a half had been a struggle. The sudden deaths of three people who had been an intrinsic part of our family’s lives had left us swimming for the surface. In the months immediately following the tragedy, it seemed that every time we were able to see light, a tidal wave of grief would engulf us and we would sink back into darkness.

  But as this year moved inexorably towards its end, I was feeling optimistic about the future. Zack had finished his term as mayor of Regina in November and had returned to his position as senior partner in the firm he and his four closest friends from law school had opened the day after they were called to the bar; our youngest daughter, Taylor, high school diploma in hand, had decided to take a gap year, staying with Zack and me while she considered her options; and for the first time in memory, there was nothing I was obliged to do. Free to choose my path, like the knights in Middle English romances, I felt ready to take “the adventure God sent me.”

  But the news delivered on the morning of December 1 knocked a fundamental building block of my identity out from under me, and I was faced with what Alice called “the great puzzle”: Who in the world was I?

  * * *

  —

  The sequence of events that led to the revelation about how I came into being began with the sudden, fatal heart attack of a man named Lev-Aaron Sloane, whose partner of fourteen years, Roy Brodnitz, was a brilliant, mercurial writer of Broadway shows. When the love of his life died, Brodnitz was thrown into a downward spiral of grief and depression. The birds no longer sang. Desperate, his friends and colleagues tried everything to help him out of the depths but he was unreachable. It was as if he couldn’t remember how to live. One morning, Brodnitz found himself standing in front of a small art gallery on West 25th Street in Manhattan. Drawn by a shimmering abstract in the gallery’s window, he went inside and asked to see the painting.

  Later, when I came to know Roy, he told me his grandmother used to chide him for too often letting his heart run away with his head, but that morning Roy’s heart led him exactly where he needed to go.

  The painting, oil on canvas, was large: 160 by 130 centimetres. At the top of the canvas, a luminous white glow appeared to undulate like a sheet in the wind. As the eye moved downward, the radiant light mutated into pulsing bands of colour: yellow-green, indigo, violet, and finally a deep, vibrant red.

  Brodnitz bought the work, titled Aurora, and had it delivered immediately to his loft in Tribeca. As he watched the late-afternoon light play on the painting’s bands of colour, Roy Brodnitz once again heard the birds sing. That night he began writing a script for a play that would be called The Happiest Girl, a dark and deeply moving musical about the power of redemptive love. After more than two years on Broadway, the show was still playing to packed houses.

  Grateful for his resurrection, Brodnitz decided to co-curate an exhibition of work by the Canadian artist who had painted Aurora, Desmond Love. The show, held at a mid-sized gallery in Brooklyn, was enthusiastically received. After many years, Desmond Love had finally emerged from the shadow of his daughter, Sally Love, who had been a wildly successful and controversial artist, and also my lifelong friend.

  Like her father, Sally died young. After her death, I had adopted her four-year-old daughter, Taylor. When Roy Brodnitz learned that Desmond Love had a then-seventeen-year-old granddaughter, he invited our family to the opening of his exhibition, Aurora: The Art of Desmond Love, and to be his guests for a performance of The Happiest Girl. On the day after Taylor’s graduation, we flew to New York City. Taylor slept from the moment we boarded the plane till we landed at JFK. Except for an occasional catnap, that sleep was the last she had until we boarded the flight back to Regina four days later.

  Roy Brodnitz had been the consummate host: he knew the city, and he knew how to dazzle. We saw art at MoMA and the Chelsea galleries, art and gardens at the Met Cloisters and the Botanical Gardens in the Bronx. We ate smoked fish and watched the rowboats float by at Loeb Boathouse in Central Park; we savoured the tasting menu at Gramercy Tavern and sampled a half-dozen flavours at Van Leeuwen Artisan Ice Cream; we visited the top of the Rock, the Statue of Liberty, and the National September 11 Memorial. And we went to shows, on and off Broadway. By far our favourite was Roy’s musical. The Happi
est Girl followed the journey of a fourteen-year-old searching the Canadian arctic for answers about her grandmother’s mysterious disappearance. The production’s message—that death is not the end—was balm for our spirits.

  Aurora: The Art of Desmond Love was also a gift. Roy had tracked down a modest but impressive collection of Des’s work, including four other paintings in the Aurora series. The five Aurora paintings were hung together in a single gallery room. To stand in that cool, quiet space and absorb the ancient power of the northern lights that the paintings seemed to emit was to know peace.

  * * *

  —

  After our trip to New York, two things happened: Desmond Love became a significant presence in our family’s life, and Roy Brodnitz’s world intersected with ours, with results that were both seductive and unsettling.

  The Happiest Girl was being produced as a movie, and the filming was taking place at the Saskatchewan Film Production Studios in Regina. During Zack’s tenure as mayor, he had lobbied aggressively to bring the industry back to our city. Gabe Vickers, a veteran producer often described as a “big gun,” had been at the opening of The Happiest Girl two years earlier, and from the moment the curtain fell, the play became what he called “his passion project.” Vickers’s production company, Living Skies, had moved its offices to Regina at the beginning of the year. His first task had been to secure financing for The Happiest Girl, but before he approached backers, Vickers had put together an impressive creative team: Roy Brodnitz would write the script; Ainsley Blair, the choreographer and director of the stage play and Roy’s long-time collaborator, would direct; Rosemond Burke, an acclaimed eighty-year-old British actor, would play the grandmother; and Vale Frazier, a seventeen-year-old actress who had starred in the show on Broadway and had already been nominated for a Tony, would play the lead. Gabe’s reputation as a producer with a genius for coordinating writing, directing, and editing would do the rest. Acquiring a clutch of eager backers, including a Reginian with deep pockets and a penchant for anonymity, was not a problem.

  When we’d said goodbye to Roy in New York in June, he said he expected pre-production would begin in Regina around Labour Day. He was right on the money. The official start took place on the Tuesday after Labour Day. It was a media event on a slow news day, and Living Skies’ trendy retro-Brutalist-style offices were crowded with politicians eager to take credit; creatives eager to establish availability for jobs; media eager to get clips for a feel-good story; and Living Skies employees eager to charm. As mayor, Zack’s attendance at the opening was a given, and Taylor and I had tagged along because we thought it would be fun. Rumour also had it that Living Skies’ craft services’ cinnamon buns were to die for.

  Not surprisingly, at the kickoff Gabe Vickers was surrounded, but he was at ease, accustomed to being the centre of attention. Tall and heavy-set, he wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black calfskin leather jacket that fit him like a second skin. His greying blond hair was thick and as shaggy as that of a boy overdue for a haircut; his ready smile revealed a gap between his front teeth that was as winningly boyish as his tousled hair, but as I watched him field questions, I noticed that Gabe Vickers’s easy smile never quite reached his cool and assessing grey eyes.

  When he spotted Zack, Gabe wrapped up the interview he was giving and approached. As Zack introduced us, Gabe took Taylor’s hand. “I was hoping you’d be here this morning,” he said. “You and I didn’t have much time to talk in New York. We’ll have time to come to know each other while I’m here.”

  A faint flush rose from Taylor’s neck to her face. “I’d like that,” she said.

  “So would I,” Gabe said, and then he turned his attention to me. Political insiders use the term royal jelly to refer to the intangible element that marks those born to be leaders. In all the years I had been politically active, I met two men and two women with the uncanny ability to draw people into their orbit and direct them wherever he or she wanted them to go. Gabe Vickers wasn’t a politician, but he had the royal jelly, and for several seconds too long, I stood with his hand in mine, struck by the aura of power around him. When Zack noticed, he cleared his throat. “Gabe, I can see by all this activity at Living Skies that your team is already hard at work.”

  Gabe’s response was casual but authoritative. “Abe Lincoln said, ‘If I had nine hours to chop down a tree, I’d spend the first six sharpening my ax.’ The same logic applies to the film industry. Every hour we spend in pre-production saves us countless hours and a whack of money down the line.”

  “ ‘Measure twice, cut once’ is solid advice in every field,” I said.

  Gabe’s eyes met mine. “Exactly,” he said. “If you cut a piece of fabric improperly, it’s ruined. Pre-production is when we design every step of the film. If it’s not done properly, all we can do is salvage what we’ve lost.” His attention shifted back to Taylor. “You’re a visual artist,” he said. “You’re lucky. You get to work on a clean canvas—no need to cover up past mistakes.”

  Before Taylor had a chance to respond, an assistant summoned Gabe. His eyes remained fixed on Taylor. “I have to take off, but let’s talk again. I’m interested in learning how it feels to have as many chances as you need to get it right.”

  The three of us watched as Gabe strode out of hearing range, and then Zack gave me a lopsided grin. “So, what just happened?” he said.

  “I think I learned how Gabe Vickers can put together the financing for a multimillion-dollar movie without breaking a sweat,” I said. “If you’re concerned about our chequing account or my virtue, don’t leave me alone with him.”

  Zack grinned, but Taylor seemed perplexed. “He is compelling,” she said.

  “I didn’t realize you’d met Gabe in New York,” I said.

  “He was in Vale’s dressing room when Roy took me backstage to introduce us. You and Dad were still talking to the actor who played Ursula’s mother. I was only with Gabe for a few minutes, but he left an impression.”

  “Good or bad?” Zack said.

  Taylor still seemed puzzled. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just knew he was a person I’d never forget.”

  * * *

  —

  During pre-production, Gabe flew back and forth to New York weekly. It was a punishing schedule. When I suggested that a barbecue with our family might offer Gabe a respite, Zack, usually the most hospitable of men, vetoed the idea.

  I was surprised. “Why not?”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “He seemed pleasant enough when we talked to him at the production office’s opening.”

  “The next time I saw Gabe Vickers, he didn’t seem so pleasant. He invited me to lunch, and after we’d finished our Arctic char, he signalled to the server to bring the bill. Then he told me he had distinctive sexual preferences and asked for the contact information for someone who could hook him up.”

  “Wow. Did he tell you what he’s into?”

  “No, and in my experience, sometimes it’s better not to know specifics if you’re going to have future dealings with the guy. Anyway, I deliberated for a nanosecond. Gabe reminded me that, given his role in bringing the production of a major film to the studios in Regina, discretion was essential, and I gave him the number of someone who might be able to help him. We sealed the deal with a manly handshake, and I slunk away with my tail between my legs like a beaten dog.”

  “Don’t be hard on yourself,” I said. “People like Gabe have a way of knowing which button to push. And he did hit the right button. The Happiest Girl is going to be marketed as a family movie. Rumours about kinky sex would be bad optics in the eyes of the investors and the general public. But you’re right about not inviting him to the house. Let’s keep things strictly business with Gabe Vickers.”

  * * *

  —

  The following weeks were filled with beginnings and endings. Zack and I both campaigned for mayoralty candidate Lydia Mah, and for a slate of progressive candidates for city
council. On election night, Lydia and most of the candidates we supported for city council won, and we celebrated their victory and Zack’s liberation from his tenure as mayor.

  During the first week in November, Roy Brodnitz and Ainsley Blair arrived in Regina to begin working with the dancers whose movements would be used for the animation of The Happiest Girl. The same dancers were also performing in an event Roy and Ainsley were co-hosting to honour Zephyr Winslow. Both of them had grown up in Regina, and Zephyr Winslow had been their dance teacher and mentor before they left the city twenty-five years earlier to begin their careers in New York.

  Celebrating Zephyr was taking place the evening of Friday, December 1. Zack, Taylor, and I were planning to meet Roy there and pick up our relationship where it had left off in June. Seemingly, the universe was unfolding as it should, but on the evening of November 30, Roy called, his voice quietly urgent, and said there was something he needed to speak with me about privately. We agreed to meet at my home the next morning when Zack would be in court and Taylor would be at an anatomy class she had enrolled in at the university.

  As I arranged the coffee tray for Roy’s visit that morning, I was intrigued but not concerned. I was almost certain I knew what he wanted to discuss. Taylor was quickly establishing a reputation as an artist worth watching, and from the moment they met, she and Roy knew they were kindred spirits. Roy ruefully acknowledged that Taylor had “claimed him with a look,” and after we returned to Regina, they had stayed in touch.

  When, one night at dinner, Taylor casually mentioned that she and Roy were discussing the possibility of her studying in New York, Zack and I exchanged a brief worried glance but offered encouragement. We were a close family, and the idea of Taylor moving away was not easy, but she was dedicated to her work, and Zack and I had been preparing ourselves to accept the inevitable.