parking spot I found was four blocks away. By the time I climbed the steps to Holy Rosary, my newly blond roots were dark with sweat, and I was grateful to step inside and let the cool wash over me. I found a spot at the end of a pew halfway up the aisle. I knelt, said a prayer, then sat back and looked around.
Regina is a city of 185,000, but lives intersect, and many of the faces in Holy Rosary were familiar to me. When I spotted a colleague from the university, or a friend from politics or the media, we exchanged the small, awkward smiles people exchange on such occasions, then turned back to our programs as if somehow in that brief obituary and description of the order of service, we could discover the reason we were sitting in a shadowy church on a brilliant July afternoon mourning a man who had chosen death over a seemingly gilded life.
As always at funerals, there were surprises, people whose connection with the deceased was not immediately apparent. Given his puzzling links with the residents of Lawyers’ Bay, Alex Kequahtooway’s presence wasn’t exactly a shocker, but as I glanced around the congregation I spotted three of Alex’s colleagues from the Regina force. In the normal run of things, the relationship between the police force and the legal community was not chummy, but Chris Altieri’s specialty had been family law, and it seemed no one was immune to domestic problems.
When my friend Detective Robert Hallam came up the aisle, I touched his arm, and he stopped to talk. His pleasure at seeing me warmed my heart. Married late and happily, Robert Hallam was the most uxorious of men. His wife, Rosalie, had been the administrative assistant in the political-science department in which I taught, and, in Robert’s books, anyone of whom his Rosalie approved was aces.
As always, Robert was a tonsorial and sartorial delight. His steel-grey crewcut and moustache were precision-trimmed. His lightweight beige jacket and slacks were without wrinkle, and the Windsor knot in his coffee-and-cream tie was impeccable. He extended his hand. “How are you, Joanne? I never see you, now that Rosalie’s retired, and you and Alex are …” He flushed with embarrassment.
“No longer seeing one another,” I finished his sentence. “It’s all right, Robert. I’m over it.”
His face softened with concern. “All the same, it can’t be easy for you being in the same room as her, even if it is at a funeral.”
I met his eyes. “You’ve lost me,” I said. “Being in the same room as whom?”
Robert did a quick shoulder check to see who was in hearing distance. Many were. Experienced cop that he was, Robert dropped his voice. “The woman the inspector has … become intimate with,” he whispered. He peered at me anxiously. “You must have known she’d be here today.”
It took me a moment to absorb the information. I’d never known the identity of the woman with whom Alex had become involved, and the knowledge that she was somewhere in the cathedral made my heart pound. I struggled to appear calm. “I haven’t seen her yet,” I said.
“Well, Mrs. Lily Falconer is outside, dressed to the nines, bold as brass, waiting to make the grand entrance with her husband and the other big shots.” Robert’s tone was acid.
My mind shattered in a dozen directions. Lily Falconer was Alex’s lover. It all made sense: her casual reference to Alex by his first name the day after the murder; the number of times the silver Audi had pulled into the Falconers’ driveway; Alex’s confidence that he was well acquainted with the people at Lawyers’ Bay. Remembering how harrowed Alex had looked when he’d interviewed me, I experienced a flash of mean-spirited gratification. If he and Lily Falconer were having an affair, it wasn’t bringing him much pleasure.
“Anyway, I think he’s crazy.” Robert was irate, and in the heat of the moment he abandoned his stage whisper. “No two ways about it, Lily Falconer is a
Regina is a city of 185,000, but lives intersect, and many of the faces in Holy Rosary were familiar to me. When I spotted a colleague from the university, or a friend from politics or the media, we exchanged the small, awkward smiles people exchange on such occasions, then turned back to our programs as if somehow in that brief obituary and description of the order of service, we could discover the reason we were sitting in a shadowy church on a brilliant July afternoon mourning a man who had chosen death over a seemingly gilded life.
As always at funerals, there were surprises, people whose connection with the deceased was not immediately apparent. Given his puzzling links with the residents of Lawyers’ Bay, Alex Kequahtooway’s presence wasn’t exactly a shocker, but as I glanced around the congregation I spotted three of Alex’s colleagues from the Regina force. In the normal run of things, the relationship between the police force and the legal community was not chummy, but Chris Altieri’s specialty had been family law, and it seemed no one was immune to domestic problems.
When my friend Detective Robert Hallam came up the aisle, I touched his arm, and he stopped to talk. His pleasure at seeing me warmed my heart. Married late and happily, Robert Hallam was the most uxorious of men. His wife, Rosalie, had been the administrative assistant in the political-science department in which I taught, and, in Robert’s books, anyone of whom his Rosalie approved was aces.
As always, Robert was a tonsorial and sartorial delight. His steel-grey crewcut and moustache were precision-trimmed. His lightweight beige jacket and slacks were without wrinkle, and the Windsor knot in his coffee-and-cream tie was impeccable. He extended his hand. “How are you, Joanne? I never see you, now that Rosalie’s retired, and you and Alex are …” He flushed with embarrassment.
“No longer seeing one another,” I finished his sentence. “It’s all right, Robert. I’m over it.”
His face softened with concern. “All the same, it can’t be easy for you being in the same room as her, even if it is at a funeral.”
I met his eyes. “You’ve lost me,” I said. “Being in the same room as whom?”
Robert did a quick shoulder check to see who was in hearing distance. Many were. Experienced cop that he was, Robert dropped his voice. “The woman the inspector has … become intimate with,” he whispered. He peered at me anxiously. “You must have known she’d be here today.”
It took me a moment to absorb the information. I’d never known the identity of the woman with whom Alex had become involved, and the knowledge that she was somewhere in the cathedral made my heart pound. I struggled to appear calm. “I haven’t seen her yet,” I said.
“Well, Mrs. Lily Falconer is outside, dressed to the nines, bold as brass, waiting to make the grand entrance with her husband and the other big shots.” Robert’s tone was acid.
My mind shattered in a dozen directions. Lily Falconer was Alex’s lover. It all made sense: her casual reference to Alex by his first name the day after the murder; the number of times the silver Audi had pulled into the Falconers’ driveway; Alex’s confidence that he was well acquainted with the people at Lawyers’ Bay. Remembering how harrowed Alex had looked when he’d interviewed me, I experienced a flash of mean-spirited gratification. If he and Lily Falconer were having an affair, it wasn’t bringing him much pleasure.
“Anyway, I think he’s crazy.” Robert was irate, and in the heat of the moment he abandoned his stage whisper. “No two ways about it, Lily Falconer is a
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