“I don’t have to read books to know that, and you’re wrong,” said Hazel. “The glass you drank from yesterday when you came in? We took the prints off it and matched them to prints taken from the oars of the boat you and Brenda Cameron stole that night.” Hazel waited for a response, a denial, but instead, a serene look stole across Claire Eldwin’s face. “Tell me, Claire… how’d you convince her to take a boat ride with you?”

Eldwin exhaled deeply. “That girl would have done anything if she thought it meant she’d get something out of it.”

“She got more out of it than she was planning, didn’t she?”

“She came to me after Colin kicked her out. She told me that she was pregnant.”

“You offered to help her confront him again.”

Claire Eldwin pulled her coffee across the table toward herself. “There were so many girls. He had that place downtown for them, but he never really tried to hide them from me. They found me somehow. Complained about the way he treated them. Sometimes I thought he wanted me to know.”

“How come you never left him?”

“Why does anyone put up with being treated badly? Because you think you deserve it. And because, despite yourself, you’re still in love. And then this one shows up at the house.” Her eyes were faraway, opening her door that August night three years earlier. “She’s flying on something, her face all red and pale from crying. She apologizes for disturbing me, but there’s something I should know.” A tear splashed in her coffee. She looked up, her eyes distant. “She’s pregnant! All this time, he’d been sharing something with these foolish women that at least he didn’t deny me. But he’d never wanted kids. Always said he was too selfish to be a father, and I certainly believed him. Brenda said she wanted me to hear it from her: that he was leaving me, that they were starting a family. ‘Why aren’t you happy, then?’ I ask her. ‘You got what you wanted.’ But she sits down… at this table, in fact – we had it in the old house – and puts her head in her hands. Then she tells me the ‘truth’… that he’s rejected her. He doesn’t care that she’s pregnant. But he loves her, she’s sure of that. And she’s come to tell me in person, out of a sense of honour, she says. Her story keeps changing, like a crazy person’s. I feel pity for her. I pour her a brandy to calm her down. She drinks it like it’s apple juice and I refill her glass. She must have been drunk when she arrived.”

“She was full of sedatives.”

“Glossy, staring eyes. I pour myself one. I tell her, we’re going to sort this out tonight. He’s got another place, one not even she knows about.”

“On the island.”

“She’d have believed anything I told her. She thought I wanted to help her.” She laughed hoarsely. “We drove down to the lakeshore and took a ferry over… I kept telling her everything was going to be fine.” Her eyes flashed up. “And everything was. I got Colin away from all that, we started over. I hid us better. I got us an unlisted number. None of them could find us. Find me. When he came home at night, it was just him and me. They didn’t exist.”

“Well, Brenda Cameron didn’t.”

“She was no longer a problem.”

“Not at least until she started haunting you.”

There was a glint of understanding in Claire Eldwin’s eye. “Well, then there was that.”

Hazel regarded the woman before them, a woman so sick with love that she’d considered anything she had to do to preserve it within bounds. Hazel had learned more about love this last week than she’d cared to, learned what it could do to those who are diseased with it. That it starts in longing and hope, but it can change, it can become something full of fear and anger, and she thought that Joanne Cameron and Claire Eldwin were linked in this. They had stripped the human patina off love, that social layer that makes people give of themselves, makes them put the loved one ahead of themselves. But under this human love was something more primitive; it stank of territory and possessions. It was something people would kill for, if they felt it threatened. She recalled times in her life when the thought had crossed her mind to go down to Toronto and give a quick pistol-whipping to one of the deadbeats who were making Martha’s life a misery. What had held her back? Mere hope? Or simply the fact she knew it was wrong? Maybe people like Cameron and Eldwin were missing some kind of moral gene. Or did they have an extra one? Was their kind of love a higher love, that knew no bounds? She would never know.

Hazel gave Childress a faint nod, and the constable sprung forward and took her cuffs off her belt. Claire Eldwin heard the clink and stood. “She’s your collar,” said Hazel. “Still feel like it was a wasted night?”

“Mrs. Eldwin,” said Constable Childress, “you are under arrest for the murder of Brenda Cameron, do you understand? You have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay. We will provide you with a toll-free telephone lawyer referral service, if you do not have your own lawyer. Anything you say can be used in court as evidence. Do you understand? Would you like to speak to a lawyer?”

“I want to see my husband.”

“Do you understand the charges against you?” Childress repeated.

“I do.”

She turned Eldwin toward the kitchen door and began to walk her out of the house. Hazel refilled her coffee cup and followed. “Do you have a key to the house?” she asked.

“On the hook by the door.”

Hazel locked up and followed Childress and Eldwin to the car. She could swear Childress was walking taller now. She folded herself into the driver’s seat and waited for Childress to belt Claire Eldwin in. “One more thing, Claire,” she said.

“What?”

“Brenda Cameron wasn’t pregnant. She lied.”

They turned back onto Highway 79 and headed for Mayfair, Claire Eldwin’s last stop before the city of Toronto.

37

The girl lay utterly still in the boat, her hands laced together in her lap. She had closed her eyes and her head felt like it had doubled in weight on Claire’s leg. Her jaw fell open. She’s so drunk. Her face was peaceful, her eyes shuddering under her lids. What was she dreaming of?

They were going to the island to confront him together, to find him and make him choose. She’d believed Claire; she was a creature of faith. But when the ferry put in, the girl was too drunk to walk and she’d ranged up the little streets looking for a couple of bikes to borrow, still pulling on a bottle of red wine. Coming down behind 6th Street and looking into backyards, they’d seen the boat and Claire knew what they would do. It had been a challenge getting the little vessel out of the gate without making too much noise, and when the girl dropped her end on the sidewalk and collapsed laughing, Claire was sure they’d be caught. But no lights went on and they made it to a concrete launch at the bottom of the residential streets and slid the boat into the water. The girl lay on her back, cradling the bottle against her belly, and murmuring. “You’re good… you’re good to take care of me,” she said, and she raised the bottle to her lips and emptied it. “Crap,” she said. “Another dead soldier.” She put the bottle down as Claire navigated the boat into the dark channel that ran into the centre of the Islands.

The moon slid along the curve of the bottle as she angled into the thin waterway with small sailboats and motorboats moored along its edge. She rinsed the bottle out in the water. When it was half full, it bobbed on the surface like a buoy, but if she filled it to the rim, it began to sink. She watched the bottle begin to vanish into the black water, but then she plunged her hand in and pulled it out. She put it down on its side in the hull. The water gurgled out of it, running into the lowest parts of the boat and filling the little channel in the middle. She filled the bottle and emptied it out eight more times. There was a long, two-inch-wide puddle running down the middle of the boat’s hull, but nothing was going to wake the girl now.