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Katherine glanced at the clock hanging over the sink and realized it was still hours before her lunch date. She had consumed three coffees that morning. The slight tremble in her outstretched hand confirmed that was enough. So she searched the cupboard for a special tea. While she waited for her ‘English Breakfast’ to brew, she went into the dining room to retrieve her cherished possession. Katherine paused in front of the buffet and opened the frosted glass door. She took out the cup and saucer from the shelf, turning the treasure in her hands, rubbing the deep red flower with her fingertip. ‘Country Rose.’ A last present from her sister Rose. The threatening tears froze to a lump in her throat. She held her breath, holding back the sense of apprehension that had accompanied her the entire day. An overwhelming sentiment of sadness enveloped her, persisted in her thoughts, in her heart. Her older sister was her rock, and now she was gone. The whole year since she had died felt like a lifetime.
The funeral had been a blur. The clicking of the projector was still trapped in Katherine’s ears, sometimes drowning out all sound. Picture after picture of Rose magnified on the screen: as a child, high school graduation, on her wedding day, on holidays, with her family, with Katherine. Then came the condolences, the shaking of hands, the introductions of strangers, and worst, the showdown of estranged relatives. She had stood face-to-face with her younger sibling. Acrimonious was the kindest word she could think to describe the reunion. Her sister had turned aside when she had approached. A slight flip of the hair, a jittery laugh and clacking of heels on tile as Julie had walked the other way. How could they ever make amends? Affection had always been sporadic. ‘On again, off again.’ Katherine felt abandoned. Not for the first time, her heart skipped a beat. But blood is blood. Should she try again? And what? Feel rejected yet another time?
Katherine pressed the cup to her breast and let out a gigantic sigh. Back in the kitchen, she put her tea and a plate of biscuits on a small tray. A few minutes later she strode out the back door to her sanctuary, clinging to her reflections.
The glass enclosure was set twenty feet down a stone path from the house. The passage, bordered by a perennial garden, bloomed with chromatic variation the whole summer long. Now the beds held only dark brown soil. The richness of the humus rose from the ground as she wandered along the walk. The grass was heavily shaded by woods that edged the periphery. There was no sunlight to peak through the bare branches of the deciduous trees, leaving the backyard dull and dreary. The entire colour came from the conifers. They changed a darker green with a hint of red in the chilly nights. She opened the door to the greenhouse and promptly closed it behind her before the heat escaped. The fan was running full blast, mixing the warmth it generated with the aroma from the herbs growing within. Scents of basil, oregano and chives drifted around her and followed her as she walked down the centre aisle. How intoxicating! Along the outside walls, deep benches stood barren. She turned the radio to a classical music station and hummed as she assessed the pots for moisture.
Over the harmony of the music, Katherine heard the patter of rain on the glass roof. The melodious resonance blended with the violins and brass of one of her favourites. The lullaby evoked images, memories and affections from long ago. Of her youth. Of her ex-husband.
Katherine slumped against the rough bench and looked off into the past.
Arthur Brockelman. The tall and willowy mystic. After all these years, she still pictured his wavy dark hair, smooth skin and olive complexion. He had appeared one day at college and overwhelmed her with his charisma. A whirlwind romance gathered strength as Arthur captured her heart. Katherine glanced at her hands that once stroked his back in the throes of desire. She shuddered at her naivety and clenched her fists. Arthur’s true character exposed itself after their hasty marriage. She rubbed at her forehead as the pain threatened to invade her once again. She felt nauseous. The reveal hadn’t been pleasant. He had been abusive and cruel.
Katherine gazed over to the drops of rain clinging to the branches of the cherry trees. Akebono—Japanese flowering cherry. This was her favourite tree, giving a dramatic display of fragrant double pink flowers in early spring. The glossy leaves had turned golden yellow and tumbled to the ground only weeks before. Her marriage had started and ended the same.
Arthur’s emotional abuse had been scheming, devised to twist her will to his. He maintained absolute power over Katherine. Her school work had faltered when she didn’t complete her assignments. He assailed her with quips of women using sexual favours to scale the corporate ladder. ‘How else except putting out? What do you know about the workplace anyway?’ These derisive remarks that Arthur had flung at her stole her self-esteem and hurt to the core. Still hurt. Finally, she had quit going to classes and lost any hope of achieving her goal of a college diploma. Katherine pushed back the tears as the thoughts looped through and around her.
What had she hoped when Arthur suggested a baby could make them happy? How had she thought everything would be okay? Why did she agree? Because life would become bearable then? Don’t make waves, she was told. She had been so confused.
The celebration of becoming pregnant was brief. Only months afterward, Arthur grew more ruthless, a bully. Katherine realized he had dragged her further into their rocky relationship. Then the first panic attack hit. But meaningless compared to what happened next.
A miscarriage!
Katherine sat on a bench to finish her tea. Her body trembled violently. The teacup slipped from her hand and struck the cement floor with a deafening impact. With a glazed stare, she peered at the shattered ruins of the cup. She let out an uncontrollable whimper. Her lips quivered, and tears welled in her eyes. Katherine placed her arms on the counter, rested her forehead in her palms and let the tears flow.
Chapter 8
Gibson didn’t raise his head at the sound of approaching footsteps. They were hushed and unobtrusive. But the sharp knock at the door startled him, and he looked up from his notes.
“Hi. Have a seat.”
“Okay.” David plunked himself in the same place that Nick had just vacated, feeling the warmth left behind. Maybe a little sticky too. From sweat? He perched on the edge of the chair, his stomach knotted up, his feet bouncing off the floor. He cleared his throat twice, clasping and unclasping his weathered hands.
Gibson sat at the desk, bent over in concentration, scribbling in his book. He laid the pen down and angled back. David’s mouth was drawn into a straight line, and he was biting his lower lip. David had broad shoulders that rippled with strength. His neck was solid, a thickness that carried down into a husky chest. The muscles of his biceps strained the fabric of his shirt.
“Do you work out?”
That wasn’t a question David expected.
“Yeah. There’s a gym on campus we can use,” he said. He breathed in deeply, thinking this won’t be so bad.
The next question came quickly and unexpectedly. “Was Robbie gay?”
“What?” David blew out his breath and looked away. “I don’t think so.”
“So maybe he was?” Gibson had picked up his pen, tapping it softly on the edge of the desk.
“I didn’t say that. That’s not what I meant.” David ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of indecision.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“No!”
“And the condom. Did that mean anything to you?”
“No,” David repeated, squeezing his eyebrows together and wetting his lips. He shifted his weight, the chair squeaking in protest at his heavy-set frame.
Gibson wasn’t sure David was telling all, so he asked another question to get closer to the truth.
“Robbie was wearing tight shorts and top. That was his usual outfit when he rode, you told me already. What about his work clothes?”
“What?” David gave a quick bark of laughter. His gaze fluttered around the room, never settling on Gibson for long. “Seemed normal.”
“Did he ride his bike every day?”
&
nbsp; “A few times a week, I guess. I didn’t pay much attention.”
“Were you a friend? Hang out after work? Play baseball?”
Gibson could see a glisten of sweat appear above David’s lip and his teeth grinding slowly against each other. His face was tanned and his sandy hair was still bleached from the blaring summer sun. The brawny physique, ruddy complexion and mournful hazel eyes didn’t hide his intelligence. Gibson jotted something in his notebook.
“I don’t play baseball.”
Gibson sat silently to let David expose more. It was a common technique for interviewing witnesses. People usually filled the silence with words. It worked.
“We’re friends. We did car things together. That’s about it.”
“What about the bike park? Did you meet up there?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“Tim. Jason. Nick. Robbie.”
David nodded and gave a wry grimace.
“You discovered the body. What were you doing before that?”
“Nothing. Got up. Came to work.”
Gibson raised his eyes from his notebook and pressed on.
“You were at the party last night,” Gibson stated, not a question. “And saw the fight.”
“Yeah, I was there. Saw it.”
“What started the fight?”
“Well—”
A shuffling of feet in the hallway made him stop. He turned in his chair. Tim stood in the doorway, his lips curling into a menacing sneer.
“Sorry, just came to get my lunch,” Tim said, then pivoted and walked into the lunchroom.
“Go on,” Gibson said.
“I don’t know what the quarrel was about. Can I leave now?”
“No clue at all?”
