A Colder Kind of Death by Gail Bowen Read Free Book Online Page B

the man in front of her.
    In the silence, I heard Hilda’s voice, as civil and unworried as it would have sounded in the classroom. “Gerald Parker, that is you, isn’t it?”
    The man in front of her smiled.
    “Yes, Miss McCourt,” he said.
    “I hear you’ve done well for yourself,” Hilda said. “Real estate, isn’t it?”
    “Last year I made the Million Dollar Club for the third straight year.” he said.
    “Splendid,” said Hilda. “You always were a hard worker. Now, Gerald, I wonder if you could let us pass. You’ve made your point. Nothing’s to be gained by keeping us out here in the snow.”
    Without a word, Gerald broke his connection with the woman next to him, and Hilda walked between them. It wasn’t Moses parting the Red Sea, but it was close. Before Gerald changed his mind, I followed. Then Howard. We had just reached the top of the stairs when I heard a man’s voice: “She’s here.”
    I turned. Jane O’Keefe was getting out of a taxi at the front of the hotel. Her sister, Sylvie, was with her. They glanced at the crowd, and then they turned towards one another. Their profiles were almost identical: cleanly marked jawlines, generous mouths, short strong noses, carefully arched brows. The two women had the scrubbed blond good looks you could see on the golf course of the best club in any city in North America. In fact, the O’Keefe sisters had grown up in the pleasant world of private schools and summers at the lake. As the crowd began to surge towards them, that idyllic existence must have seemed a lifetime away. The lights in front of the hotel leached the sisters’ faces of colour, but Jane and Sylvie didn’t hesitate. They started towards the stairs. Sylvie was carrying a camera and she hunched her body around it, protecting it the way a mother would protect a child.
    The crowd surrounded the two women, cutting them off. No one moved. The only noise was the muted sound of traffic on the snowy streets. Then Howard came down the stairs towards them. This time there was force. He used his powerful shoulders as a wedge to break through the line. When he got to Jane and Sylvie, he linked hands with them and started back up the steps.
    “Proverbs 11:21.” A woman’s voice, husky and self-important, cut through the silent night. “Though hand join in hand the wicked shall not be unpunished but the seed of the righteous shall be delivered.”
    I turned towards the voice. So did a lot of other people. When she saw that she was centre-stage, a smile lit Maureen Gault’s thin face, and she gave me a mocking wave.
    The demonstrators on the front steps had broken ranks during Little Mo’s outburst, and Howard took advantage of the situation to get Sylvie and Jane into the hotel. Seconds later, the five of us were safe in the lobby, our shaken selves reflected a dozen times in the mirrors that lined the walls.
    Hilda took command of the situation. She turned to Sylvie and Jane. “We were planning to have a drink before the festivities started. Will you join us?”
    Jane O’Keefe smiled wearily. “As my grandfather used to say, ‘Does a bear shit in the woods?’ Let’s go.”
    The Saskatchewan Lounge is a bar for genteel drinkers: the floral wallpaper is expensive; the restored woodwork gleams; the chairs, upholstered in peony-pink silk, are deep and comfortable; and the waiters don’t smirk when they ask if you’ll have your usual. We found a large table in the corner as far away as possible from the singing piano player. When the waiter came, I asked for a glass of vermouth, then, remembering the menace in Maureen Gault’s smile, I changed my order to bourbon.
    Howard raised his eyebrows. “Trying to keep pace with the guest of honour, Jo?” he asked.
    “No,” I said, “but Howard, didn’t you see …”
    He’d been smiling, but, as he leaned towards me, the smile vanished, and I changed my mind about telling him Maureen Gault had been in the crowd. Howard had always been