The Brutal Heart Page 14

  I filled a plate and we found the table at the back where the professionals always sat. Milo O’Brien was already there, stabbing at his BlackBerry and eating his Crispy Crunch. He gave us an absent wave, but he made no attempt to join us.

  Our timing couldn’t have been worse. I had just forked my first bite of sausage when the warm-up man, the local MLA, ran onstage. His blond toupee looked thatched, like a roof in a fairy tale, and his stories were cringe-inducingly blue. After a joke about the number of political bones that had been present in Ginny’s body, Keith made a moue of disgust. “How did this idiot get elected?”

  “The Liberals and the NDP split the vote, and he slithered up the middle.”

  “How did he get nominated?”

  “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.”

  “The bar for political candidacy does seem to have been lowered,” Keith said equitably. He looked at me. “Is that why you stopped being involved with your party?”

  “Partly. And partly I just got tired of sounding old – harkening back to the days when political discourse was civil and people had principles. The new gotcha politics makes me sick.”

  “Is that why you were so open to Ginny?”

  I nodded. “I thought there was an excessive licking of chops when the details of her private life became public.”

  “But it’s more than just principle,” Keith said. “You like Ginny, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  His smile was sly. “So are you going to vote for her?”

  “Now that would be a huge step. As one of Jack Quinlan’s callers said today, a vote should be decided on where a candidate stands on the issues, not on personality.”

  “Ginny’s not that far from you on most issues, and you know the argument there: better to elect someone who can be in the government tent arguing for you than to vote for someone who’ll be a voice in the wilderness for the next four years.”

  “So you think you’re going to form government again?”

  “Probably with a minority, but yes, I think we’ll pull it off. We’ve got our political base. If we can get them to the polls, then convince enough Canadians we’re not as crazy as our political base, we’ve got it nailed.” Keith glanced up at the stage. “Looks like Buddy Hackett’s finished. Can I get you some more coffee before the main event?”

  “My turn to buy,” I said. I stood and picked up our cups. Then I heard a familiar voice coming through the PA system. I looked at the stage; then back at Keith. “What’s Sean Barton doing up there?”

  “He appears to be introducing Ginny,” Keith said.

  “When did he join your campaign?”

  “Last night. Another sign that we’re going to win. When smart young lawyers sign on this close to E-Day, you suspect the breaks are coming your way.” Keith’s gaze was appraising. “I take it this will be news to your husband.”

  “News, but not a surprise. Sean hasn’t been happy at Falconer Shreve lately, so he may be looking in another direction.”

  “If he’s looking in our direction, I’d appreciate knowing if he comes with baggage.”

  “No, I don’t think he does. He’s smart and he’s charming. Zack just thinks he doesn’t have the right feeling for the law. He says Sean is less concerned about people than he is about moving the pieces around so he can win.”

  Keith raised an eyebrow. “If Sean wants a career in Ottawa, that won’t be a liability.”

  I looked across the room at Ginny, surrounded by well-wishers pushing one another to get closer. I thought of the actress Elizabeth Taylor’s wry observation: “There’s no deodorant like success.” Seemingly, the peccadilloes that had so alarmed Ginny’s political base just days ago had become insignificant. “Keith, if Ginny wins Palliser again, what’s next for her?”

  “She goes after the leadership.”

  “Character will no longer be an issue?”

  “It can be handled,” Keith said. “People’s memories are short, and Ginny does have custody of her daughters.”

  “And you’d support her?”

  Keith nodded. “It’s time for a woman prime minister – not just somebody dropped into the shark tank to finish out a term but a person who can really lead the country. Ginny has a vision of what Canada can be that’s genuinely compelling. All this talk about her private life has obscured it, but she’s smart and she’s thoughtful. Most importantly, with those girls by her side, she’d be a dynamite candidate.”

  “So if Ginny wins Monday night, Tuesday morning you start sharpening the knives and go after the current tenant of 24 Sussex Drive.”

  Keith nodded. “That’s the way it works,” he said.

  I picked up our empty cups. “I forgot to get our refill. I’ll buy you fresh and better at Mieka’s.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Keith said, and we sat back and listened to Sean do a masterful job of being grateful, humble, and excited about introducing Ginny, and Ginny do an equally masterful job of being grateful, humble, and excited about the challenge of winning the election and serving Palliser again. Neither Keith nor I responded to the financial appeal. Keith was already a maxed-out donor, and, as a woman who’d spent her adult life working for the party that opposed Keith’s, I would have had a Dr. Strangelove moment if I’d attempted to contribute a single loonie to the Conservative Party.

  The room cleared out quickly, but Keith wanted to talk to Ginny, so I stayed behind at our table. I was reading through Ginny’s new campaign brochure, when I spotted Francesca Pope at the bottom of the stairs to the stage. Ginny and Sean were still at the podium, chatting with supporters, and Francesca was staring at Ginny with an intensity that I found unsettling.

  I walked across the room to Milo. “Get Ginny out of here,” I said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Probably nothing,” I said. “But I’m spooked. That woman over there has a history of mental problems. Her name is Francesca Pope, and something about Ginny sets her off. During the custody suit, she saw Ginny in the lobby of the courthouse and she started yelling at her.”

  Milo licked a dab of chocolate off his finger. “Thanks for the heads-up,” he said. “I guess even Trojan horses have their uses.” He moved past Francesca quickly, took the stairs two at a time, whispered something in Ginny’s ear, and steered her towards the exit at the back of the stage. As always these days, Sean was close behind. Francesca scanned the room, using her hand as a visor. Finally, her eyes rested on me and she came over.

  “I remember you,” she said. “You’re my lawyer’s wife.”

  “Joanne Shreve,” I said.

  She adjusted the straps of her backpack. “It’s hard to do the right thing when everybody thinks you’re crazy,” she said. Then without elaborating, she covered her hair with a plastic grocery bag and walked through the doors into the rain.

  Ed Mariani had arranged for me to have my meeting with Vera Wang in the garden of the home he shared with his partner, Barry. Ed met me at the door, took my umbrella, and hustled me inside. “God, has there ever been a spring this wet? It may be time for the prudent to build an ark. Anyway, dishing among the daffodils is definitely out. Too bad too, I was longing to peer out my kitchen window and watch you and Vera speak tête-à-tête in the gazebo.”

  “You could hide behind that shoji screen in the living room.”

  Ed patted his girth. “I’d crash through it like an elephant. I’m just going to have to trust you to share every delicious detail.”

  “Ed, how do you think I should approach Vera? I don’t want her to feel that I’m using her.”

  “But you are using her. She understands that. She’s using you too.”

  “For what?”

  Ed slipped my jacket onto a hanger. “Like all of us, Vera wants to be respected, and she wants to be valued. Her occupation has pretty much put her beyond the pale. She’s sixty-seven – not old, but certainly at an age where a person wants to set the record straight.”

  �
��What is the record?”

  Ed’s smile was enigmatic. “I’ll let her tell you.” He peered out his living-room window. “You won’t have to wait long. The lady is on her way.”

  I gazed past him. “Is that her with the stunning umbrella?”

  “It is, and I’m glad you’ll have a chance to watch her make her entrance,” Ed said. “Vera has learned the secret of the royal family: the more slowly you move, the more people pay attention.”

  Indeed, there was something regal about the way in which Vera moved up the suburban street. Although the rain had stopped, the wind was shaking drops from the new leaves and Vera kept her umbrella raised against them. She was dressed, head to toe, in the softest grey, but her umbrella was flamboyant – huge red poppies in a sea of green.

  When Ed opened the door, she shook the rain from the umbrella’s canopy and the poppies danced. Ed took her umbrella and looked at the handle admiringly. “Solid hickory,” he said. “Very nice.”

  Vera’s smile was satisfied. “I always told my clients, you get what you pay for.”

  “Oh, good,” Ed said. “We’re not going to waste time on pleasantries. Right down to business.”

  “Time is money,” Vera said evenly.

  When Ed introduced us, she held out her hand to me. She was wearing gloves of the softest kid, and she took charge of the interview immediately. “I know you have questions, Joanne, but Ed has promised us a cup of his excellent cappuccino, and I’ve been looking forward to it.”

  “I’ve set you up in the breakfast nook, so you can look out at the daffodils while you chat,” Ed said. “Follow me.”

  Vera was one of those rare beings who feels no compunction to make small talk in a social situation. As she gazed at the garden, I fixed my eyes on her. She was a small, softly contoured woman who’d made no attempt to compromise the natural process of aging. Her grey hair curled gently away from her face. Her skin was exquisite, but there were lines around her eyes and at the corners of her lips, and her chin and neck were no longer taut. She was clearly comfortable with her appearance, but her reputation was apparently another matter.

  Ed presented our cappuccinos with a flourish. “Among his many talents, my Barry is a skilled barista,” Ed said. “He has taught me how to pour the milk in a pattern on the espresso. As you can see, I’m a beginner: all I can do are swirls and hearts. Barry, of course, can pour out the entire Last Supper.”

  “That is impressive,” I said.

  Vera laughed. “Can Barry pour out Mary Magdalene?”

  “I’ll ask him,” Ed said. “Now if you ladies will excuse me.”

  “Of course,” Vera said. “It’s time Joanne and I got started.”

  From the moment she began, it was obvious this wasn’t the first time Vera had told her story, but she explained her success with a matter-of-fact narrative skill that was mesmerizing.

  “Like most women, I came to prostitution from necessity. I was in an arranged marriage. He was abusive, and I had to get out. I had no money, and the only thing I had to sell was myself. My husband was a busy man, I had many hours on my own, and I used them profitably. When I had enough money, I left Vancouver and moved here to make a new start. My father was a merchant, and I understood business. I examined mainstream possibilities and I didn’t like what I saw: buying a corner store, working fifteen hour days, seven days a week, keeping kids from stealing candy, their older brothers from robbing me, and their parents from running up bills they would never pay. I would live over the store, and when I died no one would even know my last name. It did not appeal. Prostitution was a more congenial option. I bought a house, sought out girls, paid off the right people, and set up business. I ran a clean house – only a liar promises no disease, no drugs, no insanity, but I monitored my girls closely and I culled the ones who didn’t fit. I knew that men come to whores for something more than sex.”

  “What do they come for?”

  She picked up her spoon and swirled the milk on her cappuccino, blurring the hearts.

  “Joanne, do you know how many men use the services of a prostitute in their lifetime?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Neither do I,” Vera said. “But each of those men would have his own reasons.”

  “Did you know Cristal Avilia?” I said.

  Vera gave the foam on her spoon a catlike flick of the tongue. “I’d seen her, of course, but I knew her only by reputation. In our small circle, she was a legend.”

  “Because she was so good?”

  Vera’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you interested in Cristal, Joanne? Is it just that her life ended so dramatically?”

  “Not just that,” I said. “A member of my family was involved with her.”

  Vera nodded. “I understand. Well, she was good – superlative. I had a little mantra for my girls to repeat before a date: ‘Listen – really listen – to the man. Learn what it is he really wants – beyond the orgasm. Give him what he dreams of, and he’ll come back.’ From what I heard, Cristal lived that mantra.” Vera picked up her porcelain cup with her gloved hands. “She lasted fourteen years in our business – that’s phenomenal. Most girls don’t make it past two.”

  “Did you ever see her with a man?”

  Vera’s laugh was curiously girlish. “Of course. Being with a man was Cristal’s business, Joanne. I often saw her with men – at dinner, in a hotel lobby, getting into a taxi.”

  “Any man in particular?”

  “She had many repeat customers.”

  “And you knew them.”

  “Some of them.”

  “But you’re not going to name them.”

  “That’s right. I’m not.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  Vera raised an eyebrow. “A pimp? Yes, I’d heard rumours about a man in her life. He didn’t sound pleasant, but they seldom are.”

  “Did you hear a name?”

  “No, and this time I’m not being discreet. I truly never heard a name, but I did hear that their relationship was an ugly one.”

  “Ugly enough that he might have killed her?”

  “Unlikely,” Vera said. “Cristal was, after all, his little money-making machine, but I guess even a little money-making machine can drive her owner to murder.”

  “My God. The world can be a terrible place.”

  Vera’s look was pitying. “Are you just discovering that, Joanne?”

  When I arrived at UpSlideDown, the newest recruit to the campaign greeted me. Sean’s crooked smile charmed me as it always did, and the sight of a forest of tiny bright umbrellas in the vestibule finished the job. UpSlideDown was a welcome, noisy reminder that life can be good.

  “All’s well,” Sean said. “Ginny’s chatting up the parents and Mieka’s already signed the release to let your granddaughters appear in the spot. We have not had a single parent turn down our request to let their child appear in an ad with Ginny. I believe this campaign is starting to go very, very well.” He frowned. “You look a little down. Bad morning?”

  “I’ve had better,” I said. “But this is nice.”

  Sean gestured towards a vastly pregnant woman with two sons under the age of five. The boys spied the umbrella stand, chose their weapons, and started duelling. We watched as the mum removed the umbrellas from her sons’ hands and bent towards them. “Enough,” she said. “Got it, Sawyer?” Sawyer gave her an angelic smile. “Got it, Finn?” Finn’s chuckle was deep, charming, and utterly noncommittal.

  “I’d better get her to sign the waiver fast,” Sean said. “Keith’s around here somewhere. Since I told him you were coming, he’s been eyeing the door.”

  “I’ll find him,” I said. “Good luck with the pretty mum.”

  Sean approached her and held out the release form. “This is just to let you know that your boys might be photographed as part of a political spot for Ginny Monaghan. If you’re uncomfortable with the situation, UpSlideDown will give you a voucher for three hours free playtime another day.
”

  The young woman patted her belly. “It’s raining. I’m pregnant. I seem to have given birth to Satan’s spawn. I don’t care who they’re photographed with. I just want to sit down, sip chamomile tea, and listen to Nora Jones on my iPod.”

  “Sign here,” Sean said. “It’s nice to meet a fellow Nora Jones fan.”

  The woman scrawled her name and headed off after her boys, who had already scaled the walls of a play-castle and interrupted the tea party of two young girls with tiaras and attitude.

  As soon as she spotted me, Ginny came over. “I seem to have lost Mieka,” she said. “And I need to freshen up. Is there a bathroom I can use?”

  “There is,” I said. “But the adult female bathroom is a single. You’ll wait forever. The children’s bathrooms, on the other hand, offer endless possibilities if you’re prepared to squat and wash up at a teeny-tiny sink.”

  Ginny shrugged. “Any port in a storm. Hey, your old pal is over there waiting for you.”

  Keith was seated at a little red table with my granddaughters. Madeleine was wearing jeans and a shirt that read, “Girl Power.” Lena was still wearing her new ladybug raincoat and rainhat. I knew without asking that she had simply refused to take them off, and Mieka was waiting her out. I also knew that Mieka would wait a long time to see that raincoat come off. Lena was a determined child. Keith and the girls were building something elaborate and mysterious out of Lego, and they were so content that I stopped for a moment just to watch them.

  The girls were five and three and their personalities were beginning to declare themselves. They were their own people, but there were recognizable family traits: Madeleine, fair-haired and hazel-eyed, was, like Mieka and me, earthbound and pragmatic; Lena, dark-eyed and mercurial, was like my late husband, Ian. As I watched Keith, I wondered whether he was seeing traits in the girls that connected them to the Harris family.

  He looked up and smiled. “There’s a fourth chair at this table,” he said.

  “We’re building a corral for the horses,” Lena said.