The Wandering Soul Murders by Gail Bowen Read Free Book Online Page A

Then he found the other two jacks. “That’s one for Angus and one for Taylor. Get the word out, Lorraine. The Jacks are the team to beat.”
    A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. “It’s supposed to be random,” she said as she wrote our names down on her list, “an icebreaker. But obviously you two have already broken the ice.”
    She finished writing and stood. “Come up to the tent in about twenty minutes and see who you’re supposed to play.” Then her face softened, and she smiled at someone behind me. “You have to be Peter,” she said. “I made Mieka show me your picture when Greg said you were going to be a groomsman.”
    I turned and there was my oldest son. For a split second he looked unfamiliar. He seemed taller, his face was sunburned, and he had a new and terrible haircut. I thought he looked sensational.
    I jumped up and threw my arms around him. “I’m not going to let you go back to Swift Current,” I said. “I’ve decided I don’t believe in kids having independent lives.”
    Angus was sitting on the ground trying to get an old portable radio to work. “I think Pete probably figured that one out the night you called him three times because you thought he sounded weird.”
    Peter looked at his brother. “Actually, Mum was right.” He turned to me. “I wasn’t going to say anything until you could see that I was still alive, but that time you called a cow had just kicked me in the head.”
    I shot Angus a look of triumph. “Okay, okay,” he said, scraping at the batteries of the radio with his Swiss Army knife. “You win. You’re psychotic, Mum.”
    “Thank you,” I said, “and the word is psychic.”
    Peter introduced himself to Lorraine and Keith, then Taylor asked to hear the story of the cow. It was a good story, and Pete told it well. We were all still laughing when Christy came down from the house. She touched Pete on the shoulder, and as he turned I saw the light go out of his face.
    Christy saw it, too, and despite our history I felt a rush of sympathy for her. In the months they were together, I don’t think Christy ever really understood what she wanted from Peter. But that night at the lake she knew. She wanted him to be in love with her, and when she saw his face, she knew he wasn’t. It was a bad moment, and I was glad when Peter took her hands in his.
    “You look beautiful, Christy,” he said. “You really do. That dress is a knockout.”
    In fact, it was a simple dress, white, scoop-necked and short-sleeved. A dress for a summer party. And she was wearing shoes for a summer party, white Capezio flats of the softest leather. Taylor couldn’t take her eyes off them. Finally, she knelt on the grass and touched one. “Dancing shoes,” she said.
    Peter slid his arm around Christy’s shoulder. “Would you like to dance? I don’t know what they’ve got planned here tonight, but I can hear music somewhere.”
    “I’d love to dance,” she said, and there was such longing in her voice that I turned away, embarrassed.
    It was almost eight-thirty. The sun had moved low in the sky, and a swath of golden light swept from the west lawn to the lake. As Peter and Christy walked to the house, they followed that path of light. They looked like the happily-ever-after picture at the end of a fairy tale.
    On the ground beside me, Angus gave the portable radio one last adjustment with his knife. Suddenly the radio blared to life, and a man’s voice, disjointed and unnaturally loud, cut through the night. “…  that was found by children in a stairwell two blocks from the murder site may be the weapon used in the stabbing death of seventeen-year-old Bernice Morin. Tonight, the provincial lab is analyzing blood found on the scalpel to see if it matches the blood type of the victim. As well, pathologists are attempting to correlate a number of small nicks in the cutting edge of the surgical scalpel with the wounds inflicted on …” The radio fell silent.
    As soon as