The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn by Gail Bowen

seat Taylor was tormenting her brother about Brie, the girl who’d moved from L.A.
    I turned down the sound, punched the button to change stations, then angled around towards Taylor.
    “Stop it, T,” I said. “I mean it.”
    Angus leaned over to his sister. “She means it. I can tell by her voice.”
    “Thank you, Angus,” I said, and I snapped on my seatbelt and pulled out of the driveway.
    “Top of the hour on your Rock and Roll Heaven Weekend,” said the man on the radio. “Here’s a celestial six-pack: Karen Carpenter, Ritchie Valens, Buddy Holly, LouisArmstrong, Bobby Darin, and Marvin Gaye, Six Greats Whose Stars Shine Bright Even After Death!”
    “I hate that station,” said T.
    “You can borrow my Discman,” Angus said; then he hissed, “but listen, if you even breathe wrong, I’m taking it back.”
    At College Avenue, we had to stop for a funeral procession. As I sat and watched the hearse and the mourners go by, Karen Carpenter sang about how love had put her on the top of the world.
    We dropped Angus at the Y, and Taylor hopped in the front seat with me. As we drove to the Mackenzie Gallery, she filled me in on her new art teacher.
    “His name is Fil with an F,” she said. “He wears a sleeve on his head, and he says if you understand planes, you can draw anything.”
    “Planes?” I said. “Planes like at the airport?”
    Taylor shook her head. “Is that another one of your jokes, Jo?”
    “No,” I said, “it’s not. I really don’t understand.”
    “Planes like on your face.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “Except,” she said, “you’re like me. No planes. Just chipmunk cheeks.”
    “Thanks, T,” I said. “I needed cheering up.”
    She undid her seatbelt and slid across the seat towards me. “I love you, Jo.”
    I looked at her worried face. She’d only been with me two years, not secure yet.
    “I love you, too, Taylor,” I said. “Now get your seatbelt back on.”
    “We’re almost there.”
    “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Snap!”
    Most Saturdays I used the two hours when Taylor was at her art lesson to run errands, but that morning I didn’t feellike braving the eyes of the curious in the mall. I remembered the visiting exhibition of Impressionist landscapes at the gallery. I decided I could use an infusion of incandescent light and pastoral peace.
    It helped. As I walked through the still rooms, I could feel my pulse slow and my mind clear. Paschal Temple’s revelation had shaken me. For six years I had lived with the fact that Ian’s death had been random, a chance occurrence in a fatalist’s tragedy. But if Maureen Gault had killed Ian, the character of the tragedy changed. In the months after Ian’s murder I had tormented myself imagining what his death must have been like. But as frightening as the movie in my head was, it lacked specifics. Darkness. Shadows. A spill of blood on the snow. I could never bring Kevin Tarpley into focus. Maureen Gault was another matter. When I closed my eyes, she was there, pale eyes flat with menace, thin mouth curled in triumph, as she ended Ian’s life. Oh, I could see Maureen all right. But try as I might, what I couldn’t see was why she had killed my husband.
    I checked my watch as I came out of the exhibit. Taylor would be in her lesson for another hour. I wandered through the lobby. In the corner was a rack of brochures for tourists. I rejected the ones for other galleries and museums in our city, and chose one entitled “Tips for Healthy Living.” It was full of robust good sense:
Nutrition – Eat Right
Physical Fitness – Exercise Regularly
Stress – Learn to Cope
Accident Prevention – Practise Safety
Communicable Diseases – Practise Prevention
    I put it back in the rack. Now that I had the key, Healthy Living would be easy. I checked my watch again. I still hadalmost an hour. Time enough to fight stress by coping. Jill had left me a pass for the video library at Nationtv; I could go over the tapes of