The Wandering Soul Murders by Gail Bowen Page B

that into me for nineteen years, you can’t expect me to just walk away now.”
    He pulled himself up on the side of the pool. His body, still pale from winter, was as graceful as his father’s had been.
    “I’m seeing Daddy everywhere in you today,” I said.
    He raked his hair with his fingers. “That’s not bad, is it?”
    “Not bad at all,” I said. “Come on inside, and I’ll get us some breakfast.”
    Taylor and Angus were already at the breakfast table having cereal. Taylor was unnaturally quiet. The night before when I had told her about Christy’s death she had listened attentively, then gone off to her room to draw. When I went in to say goodnight, she was asleep, and the bedspread was covered with pictures of swans.
    While Peter went upstairs to dry off and change, I poured us all juice and started batter for pancakes.
    “Anybody want to take the dogs for a walk after breakfast?” I asked.
    “Samantha’s mum is taking us for a ride on the bike path,” Taylor said.
    “Are you up for that, T.?” I asked. “You just started yesterday.”
    “Samantha’s mum has never ridden a bike in her life, but she says today’s the day.”
    “Good for her,” I said. “Angus, how about you?”
    He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I’m playing arena ball as soon as I’m through here, then I’m coming home to make a cake.”
    “A cake,” I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice.
    “Alison next door made this cake, and it was great. She says it’s a real no-brainer.”
    “A no-brainer?” I asked.
    He looked at me kindly. “Easy? Any dummy can do it?”
    “Right,” I said.
    After breakfast, Peter and I put the dogs on their leashes and walked them downtown to Victoria Park. The walk to the park was a family tradition on the twenty-fourth of May weekend, one of those small ceremonies whose only justification was that we did it every year. My husband, Ian, used to say it was our way of making sure that Good Queen Vic, the fertility goddess, would smile on our garden.
    It was the first really hot day of the year, and the streets were coming to life with people riding bikes or jogging or pushing babies in strollers. There was a regatta on Wascana Lake, and from the bridge we could see the bright sails of the skiffs waiting for wind.
    Peter and I didn’t say much. We never did. We sat on the bench in front of the statue of Sir John A. Macdonald and listened to the chimes the multicultural community had donated to the park play “Edelweiss.” Four days earlier I had sat on this same bench with Mieka, reeling from the shock of the death of another young woman. It was not a pattern I was happy about repeating.
    Finally I said to Peter, “Do you remember Constable Kequahtooway? He was the first one there the night of the accident.”
    Peter nodded.
    “Well,” I went on, “he says that taking care of the details of Christy’s funeral and finding out more about her might help us accept what’s happened.”
    “Face it,” Peter said angrily. “Nothing’s going to help.”
    He leaned back on the bench and raised his face to the sun. The chimes finished “Edelweiss” and started on “The Blue Bells of Scotland.” When “Blue Bells” was finished, Peter leaned forward and looked across the park.
    “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to do the right things for Christy,” he said. “But it’s not going to be easy. Sometimes I wonder if she ever told me the truth about anything.”
    “Maybe that’s what she wanted to tell me that last night,” I said.
    Peter shook his head. “You never give up, do you?”
    “That’s what your dad used to tell me. He didn’t see it as a particularly admirable trait.” I shrugged. “Anyway, the truth must be somewhere. I guess the place to start is Christy’s family. The Estevan angle doesn’t seem to be true, but she must have somebody. It’s terrible to think of her people out there not knowing. How would you feel about