An Image in the Lake: A Joanne Kilbourn Mystery Read online

  “Is that ethical?” I said.

  “The trial was over, and lawyers like to talk shop,” Zack said. “Most of us see it as part of our ongoing education, and learning how Delio’s lawyer handled his case was a master class in what not to do. Ana told me that when Delio’s lawyer heard that three of his client’s former colleagues were coming forward with charges that he had forced them to have sex with him and that the sex often became violent, he advised Delio to make a pre-emptive strike by handing management the material the women were about to make public.”

  I was dumbfounded. “What kind of lawyer would advise his client to do that?”

  “A stupid one,” Zack said. “He must have thought if Delio played show and tell, he’d get management on his side. To be fair, for a while it worked. Management shook hands on a confidentiality agreement not to release the material which, incidentally, included tapes Delio sent to the women describing in graphic detail the sexual fantasies he wanted to act out with them.”

  I shuddered. “And he still walks among us.”

  “A chilling thought,” Charlie said. “But thanks to Delio’s public shaming, although he is walking among us, he is no longer respected, admired or rich.”

  “According to Ana, the day of the protests was Delio’s day of reckoning,” Zack said. “When management realized the wind had shifted, they breached the confidentiality agreement, released the material, including the tapes, and cited the salacious material as their reason for firing Delio.”

  “No honour among thieves,” Charlie said.

  “Are you surprised?” I said.

  “No,” Charlie said. “I checked Joseph Monk’s biography online. He was head of HR at MediaNation when Delio was fired. In fact, he was probably the mastermind who engineered Delio’s exit.”

  “Okay, I understand why MediaNation doesn’t want the Delio case revisited,” Zack said. “It was a black eye for them, but from what came out in court, Delio had a pattern of being sexually aggressive and violent with women, not just in the workplace, but also in his private life. Those are criminal offences. Ellen Exton’s only offence is bad judgment.”

  Charlie D clasped his hands behind his neck and stretched his legs in front of him. “What do you think she should do?”

  Zack drew a deep breath. “If you’re asking me if Ms. Exton has a case for wrongful dismissal, I would say she does, and Falconer Shreve has a dozen skilled lawyers whose specialty is labour law. If you’re asking if I think Ms. Exton should pursue a case of wrongful dismissal, the answer is no.

  “By the time Delio’s case came to trial, he’d fired his stupid lawyer and hired a primo lawyer who knows every trick in the book, has no problem getting blood on her hands and heads up her own boutique firm filled with the best and the brightest. Delio was found innocent not because he is innocent, but because he had the finest legal representation money could buy. The fees for that defence were through the roof. It will take him years to pay them off.”

  I could feel my bile rise. “So even though what happened to Ellen Exton is neither fair nor just, because MediaNation has deep pockets and endless time to watch the wheels of justice grind, she should just walk away. That is so wrong.”

  “Agreed,” Zack said. “But that’s the way the system works.”

  Charlie D ran his fingers through his hair. “Duly noted, but something about the way this whole thing went down has my spidey senses tingling. After Ellen called, I drove over to MediaNation. Ellen was downstairs boxing up her personal things beneath the watchful eyes of the corporation’s officer for visitor management. Mark’s a nice guy, and he seemed just as upset as she was. I asked Ellen what I could do to help. She said all she wanted was to get out of that building.”

  “Exactly the response MediaNation was counting on,” Zack said. “Did the powers that be have any reason other than the extortion threat for wanting Ellen Exton out of there?”

  Charlie’s eyes flashed. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out! Especially since our previous executive producer for programming left under circumstances that were unsettling, to say the least.”

  “Rosemary Morrissey is gone?” I asked. “She’s been a fixture in that building since I was a political panellist on the old Canada Tonight show. She was so passionate about her work. I can’t imagine her just walking away. What happened?”

  Charlie made the lip zipping gesture. “Can’t talk about it. Lawyers’ orders. Our colleagues at MediaNation know that Rosemary was not herself in the weeks before she left, but we don’t know whether HR in Toronto put her on medical leave, she resigned or she was not so gently shoved out the door. It was all hush-hush, and it’s supposed to remain that way.”

  “When did this happen?” I asked.

  “End of June,” Charlie said. “And no one — not even Ellen — has heard a word from Rosemary. She’s always been a traveller, and money has never been a problem for her. The assumption is that she flew to a place as far away as possible from MediaNation, and she’s staying there.”

  “But she and Ellen were close?” I said.

  “As close as either of them got with anybody,” Charlie D said. “Neither of them was gregarious. They were both movie lovers, and they were regulars at the film series at Central Library. As far as I know, that was the extent of their relationship.”

  “Still, Ellen must have been upset about Rosemary leaving,” Zack said.

  “She was.” Charlie straightened. “Do you think there’s a connection between Rosemary’s exit and what happened with Ellen yesterday?”

  Zack’s gaze was penetrating. “If I knew more about the circumstances under which Ms. Morrissey left, I’d be better positioned to hazard a guess.”

  Charlie D drummed his fingers on the table. After a long moment of deliberation, he stopped drumming. “You’re right,” he said. “You should have the full picture. It’s just that talking about what happened to Rosemary is a punch in the gut for me.”

  He hesitated, and when he continued, I could hear the sadness in his voice. “For lack of a better word, Rosemary deteriorated. She suffers from migraines. She told me once that she felt migraines inhabited her, the way viruses inhabit their hosts, and that even when a migraine ended, she knew the virus was still inside her, stealing what it needed from the host cells.”

  I shuddered. “Imagine living with that sword hanging over your head.”

  “Rosemary was a pro,” Charlie said admiringly. “She accepted the migraines as part of her life and carried on. But that changed. On the May long weekend, Rosemary drove to her cottage at Katepwa. When she returned to work on Tuesday, she looked as if she’d been through hell. She said she’d suffered the worst migraine she’d ever experienced, and she was reeling from the after-effects.

  “Everybody was sympathetic, and we were familiar with the pattern — we knew it was only a matter of time before Rosemary regained her strength. So, we all carried on as usual.”

  “But that didn’t happen,” Zack said.

  Charlie’s face darkened at the memory. “No, Rosemary didn’t bounce back. She got worse. She had trouble focusing; she’d always been quick to size up a situation and make a decision, but she became indecisive, and she forgot things. Most significantly — she was making mistakes. Big ones. Rosemary had always been a perfectionist. Suddenly everything she touched went awry. At first, we covered for her and let it pass, but when the problems persisted and grew more serious, we had to face the fact that something was very wrong.

  “Ellen was convinced that what Rosemary suffered on the long weekend at Katepwa was a stroke, not a migraine, but when she tried to convince Rosemary to see a specialist, Rosemary shut her down.”

  “MediaNation’s a large company,” Zack said. “You must have some form of workplace counselling service for employees.”

  “We do, and it’s first rate. The company prides itself on its
employee assistance program, but EAP can’t help if an employee doesn’t seek assistance.”

  “And Rosemary refused to seek help,” I said.

  “She said she no longer knew who to trust. We were at an impasse. Rosemary had become a liability, and something had to be done. MediaNation, like all the networks, is losing ground to streaming services. The fall schedule was our Hail Mary pass, and we couldn’t afford to drop the ball. Rosemary had to go.”

  “So, how was the situation resolved?” I said.

  Charlie let out a long breath. “In the worst possible way. Someone, I don’t know who, reported Rosemary’s condition to HR in Toronto. And that’s when the shit hit the fan. At the beginning of July, everyone working on a project Rosemary was supervising received an email from Joseph Monk asking them to submit a frank assessment of Rosemary’s ability to continue as executive producer for programming. The assessments were to be sent directly to him by the end of the week.”

  “Death by a thousand cuts,” I said.

  Charlie winced. “Death by a hundred and fifteen cuts. Only one hundred and fifteen of us reported directly to Rosemary, but she believed everybody in our unit was her friend, so one hundred and fifteen cuts did the job. The following Monday, Rosemary was not at work. Her office had been cleared out; she’d put her house and her cottage up for sale. The problem had disappeared.” Charlie’s voice was thick with self-disgust.

  “Charlie, don’t beat yourself up over this,” I said. “I know you, and I know you did everything you could. You told us that when Rosemary failed to show up for work after the letters had been sent to HR in Toronto, the assumption was that she was travelling. I think that’s a fair assumption.”

  “Travelling off the beaten path is one of Rosemary’s passions,” Charlie said. “She liked to search out lives that were being lived differently from her own. She was never a tourist; she always spent enough time to at least give her a real sense of what it was like living that person’s life. She was never superficial. She read as much as she could about a people’s history and cultural beliefs beforehand; experienced as much of their lives as she could when she lived with them. And then she kept up with them, learning everything she could from them even after she left.”

  “I remember talking to her after she’d just come back from Cambodia,” I said. “She was wearing an exquisite Khmer golden silk tunic that she’d sewn herself. When she talked about the Cambodians who had welcomed her into their lives, she was like a schoolgirl.”

  Charlie’s expression was hopeful. “So, you don’t think she’s reached a point of no return.”

  “I don’t. A woman with that zest for living would not give up,” I said. “Rosemary was at the centre of a perfect storm of agonizing pain, self-doubt, professional insecurity and what appeared to be betrayal by those who knew her best. Travel had always brought her release. It’s been barely a month. My guess is that Rosemary has chosen to retreat, take stock, get the help she needs and restart. She’ll come out of this stronger than ever.”

  “And Ellen?” Charlie said. “Jo, if you could have seen her yesterday in the MediaNation parking lot, you wouldn’t have been confident of her future. She was at the point where Rosemary must have been when the axe dropped on her: broken, despairing and angry.

  “After we’d loaded the boxes in the car, she said, ‘I should go back and check to see if I left anything . . .’ She started towards the building and then she just froze. I pivoted to see what she’d reacted to. There was nothing — just a summer intern heading home for the day.

  “When I asked Ellen if she wanted me to go back to check her cubicle, she shook her head and slid into the passenger seat. We didn’t exchange another word until we’d carried the boxes into her apartment. When we’d finished, she thanked me and walked me to the door.”

  “And have you heard from her since?” Zack said.

  “No. I expected to hear from her last night, but nada. When I phoned her this morning, my call went straight to voicemail. I’ve texted but no response.”

  I touched his arm. “Charlie, you’ve done everything you can. The last three months must have been painful for everybody working in your unit. Two good people were treated abominably. Sadly, that is not unprecedented. Don’t assume the burden for what happened. Let it go — at least for a while. If you can think of anything we can do, let us know.”

  “I can think of something,” Zack said. “Instinct tells me there’s more behind this than the videos Ellen Exton sent to Mr. X, but that aside, Ellen needs to open up to someone. Charlie, she obviously sees you as an ally and a friend, but you’re also employed by the corporation that fired her. She may be concerned that she’s made you vulnerable or that they’ll put pressure on you to tell them what you know.”

  Charlie D’s laugh was short and mirthless. “Which is nothing.”

  “Let’s keep it that way,” Zack said. “Could you text Ellen my contact information? Whatever’s going on, she needs to talk it through, and as her lawyer, I could offer her a zone of privacy. And Charlie, let Ellen know this one is on the house.”

  “That’s generous,” Charlie D said.

  “Nope. Just self-serving,” Zack said. “After thirty years as a lawyer, I still believe in justice.”

  Chapter Two

  When Alison Janvier had announced she was running for leader of the political party Zack and I supported, we were both excited. At a time when politics was too often tawdry and fierce, Alison was a gift, a candidate whose shining idealism was tempered by an even-handed pragmatism. She had drawn together a coalition of progressive millennials, old-line supporters of the left and people who simply believed our province had lost its way. It was no small feat, but I was content to stand on the sidelines and cheer Alison on until the night two weeks before the leadership convention, when she made a throwaway comment that could have cost her the leadership.

  A wildly successful political rally can induce a state of euphoria akin to a runner’s high in a candidate. The rally that night in Moose Jaw had been a triumph for Alison. It was the first time she felt victory might truly be within her reach, and when a reporter asked her if it was time for someone like her to lead the party, she said, “Why not? We haven’t had much luck with our string of old white guys.”

  Our daughter-in-law, Maisie, and Alison had been in the same year at the College of Law, and they’d both played lacrosse on the college team. Maisie was not political, but her loyalty to her former teammates was primal, so when Alison announced her candidacy, Maisie compiled a list of backers and went to work. Our daughter-in-law always played to win, and the number of memberships she sold was impressive.

  She and Alison had chosen divergent career paths, but the campaign had brought them together, and Maisie was with Alison the night she made the “string of old white guys” comment. Recognizing that Alison’s words might alienate a huge swath of voters who had previously been on her side, my daughter-in-law called us immediately. I told her to bring Alison to our place that night as soon as they were back in the city.

  It was Zack’s and my first meeting with Alison, and the circumstances were not ideal, but five minutes after we sat down together at the kitchen table, I understood why people responded so positively to her.

  In person, Alison was striking rather than beautiful, a reed-slim thirty-five-year-old with shining blue-black hair anchored in a high ponytail, deep-set eyes so dark they were almost black and a generous mouth. Perhaps most importantly, she had what old-time politicos used to describe as the “royal jelly,” that indefinable quality that separates truly exceptional political leaders from the pack. Informed, passionate and, until that night, disciplined about staying on message, Alison was a dream candidate. But she had blundered badly, and she knew it.

  After Maisie introduced us, Alison didn’t waste time on preamble. “My answer to that reporter was ageist, sexist and unbelievably stupid,” she
said. “How do I dig myself out?”

  “The first step is to identify the problem, and you nailed that,” Zack said. He wheeled closer to her. “I’m curious, Alison. Has all your experience with older white men been negative?”

  Her head shake was vehement. “No. I have needed help to get where I am, and much of that help came from the kind of person who I so stupidly categorized and dismissed tonight. On our way here, I told Maisie about the significant role people like your friend Warren Weber have played in my life. Mr. Weber endowed a scholarship that made it possible for people like me from Northern Saskatchewan to study law or medicine and still spend summers at home working in the community.”

  When Zack asked Alison if he should call Warren, Alison didn’t hesitate. She knew she needed his backing.

  The next morning Alison made the media rounds, saying essentially what she’d said to Zack. Her apology was straightforward and heartfelt. Warren joined her on our province’s most popular and controversial call-in show. Alison took a beating, but Warren’s support was steadfast, and by the time the show ended, it was clear she had weathered the storm. Two weeks later, she won the nomination, and I was once again writing speeches.

  As a rule, I found writing speeches for Alison absorbing, but that morning distracted by Charlie’s story about Ellen Exton, I couldn’t seem to string two coherent thoughts together, and I was relieved when it was time for lunch.

  Gazpacho is better the day after it’s made, and as I broke off a piece of baguette and Zack handed me a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, I felt the tension of the morning lift. Our love-making after lunch was lazy and very nice, and afterwards I fell asleep curled up against my husband, feeling that all was right with the world.

  We slept for over two hours and awoke to definitive signs of a change in the weather. The light in the room was shadowy, and Pantera, who feared storms and adored Zack, had slunk in and wedged himself against Zack’s side of the bed.

  The south wall of our bedroom overlooks the creek, and the original owners had installed double doors that opened onto a small flagstone patio. I slid out of bed, shrugged into my robe and stepped outside. Low dark clouds were rolling in, the temperature was dropping and the air was unnaturally still. “Something’s coming our way,” I said. “Come see for yourself.”