Unlocking Season , livre ebook

Ecw Press - Gail Bowen

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

161 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

'Arthur Ellis Award-winning authorGrand Master Award of Crime Writers of Canada (2018)The queen of Canadian crime fiction (Winnipeg Free Press) returns with a new installment in the Joanne Kilbourn series that is perfect for readers of Louise Penny, Ruth Rendell, and Peter Robinson. On a Saturday bright with harbingers of spring, Joanne Kilbourn-Shreve, her husband, Zack, and their family prepare to celebrate the season. Joanne s life is full, and at 60, she has been given the chance to understand a part of her history that for years was shrouded in secrecy.Living Skies is producing Sisters and Strangers, a six-part TV series about the tangled relationships between the families of Douglas Ellard, the father who raised Joanne, and Desmond Love, her biological father. Joanne is working on the script with Roy Brodnitz, a brilliant writer and friend. The project s future seems assured, but before the script is completed,

Informations

Publié par	Ecw Press
Date de parution	01 septembre 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781773055824
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0700€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Unlocking Season
A Joanne Kilbourne Mystery
Gail Bowen

Contents Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Acknowledgements About the Author Copyright

Dedication
For Jack David, for having faith in the Joanne Kilbourn series and in me.
And Nathaniel Bowen, for making it possible for his Dad and me to continue living great lives.

Chapter One
On the Saturday morning before Easter, when I opened the front door and saw Georgie Shepherd on our porch, I felt a twinge of unease. Georgie was the executive producer of Sisters and Strangers, a six-part TV series based on the tangled relationships of my family. We had solid scripts for the first two episodes, but we were still struggling to finish the rest. Georgie’s appearance at my house on a holiday weekend did not augur well.
Our dogs, Esme and Pantera, were sniffing Georgie’s knees, making sure she passed muster before she stepped over the threshold. Luckily, it appeared that Georgie was a dog lover. “You have a bullmastiff and a Bouvier,” she said. “They’re beauties, but wow, they are big. You must be a fan of the giant breeds.”
“We are, but Pantera and Esme chose us. Our son, Peter, is a vet. Pantera’s owners brought him to Pete’s clinic to have him neutered and never picked him up. When Pete called them, they told him they bought Pantera because he was cute, and now he was just big. Esme belonged to Pete’s sister-in-law. When she died, Esme needed a home, and we needed a Bouvier.”
“So happy endings all around,” Georgie said, giving the dogs one last pat. There was an uneasiness in her tone. “Joanne, I apologize for barging in like this. I did try to phone, but my calls went straight to voicemail.”
“My phone was turned off,” I said. “Zack and I are dyeing eggs with our grandchildren.”
The sulphur scent of boiling eggs lingered in the air. Georgie sniffed and grimaced. “I didn’t know anyone still did that.”
“We’re old school,” I said. “Come in and join the party.”
“Sign me up for next year,” Georgie said. “There’s a problem we need to talk about.”
Sisters and Strangers was about Douglas Ellard, the father who raised me, and his lifelong friend, the artist Desmond Love, who was my biological father. Telling their story fully and honestly mattered to me, and I had been working with the writer, Roy Brodnitz, on the script. At sixty, the chance to understand and accept a part of my life that until a year earlier had been shrouded in secrecy was a gift, and the chance to be involved in a process that meant stepping into a new world was seductive, but after a promising start, things fell apart.
I led Georgie into the living room. “The kitchen windows are open, and I’ve put out dishes of vinegar, so we’ll be able to breathe soon. I’ll let my family know you and I are talking.”
When I returned, Georgie was sitting in an easy chair by the window that overlooked the creek behind our house. Her scrubbed, blond good looks, fine, precise features and cleanly marked jawline suggested a woman with a sunny, uncomplicated view of life, but Georgie’s grey eyes were knowing, and her lips had a way of curling in private amusement at the vagaries of human behaviour. My grandmother would have said that Georgie Shepherd “was nobody’s fool,” and my grandmother would have been right.
Our forsythia had just bloomed. The bush’s gold, bell-shaped flowers were a welcome burst of colour in the grey late-winter palette, and Georgie had half turned to gaze at them. “That forsythia is glorious,” she said.
“A harbinger of spring,” I said. “And a good omen.”
“Let’s hope,” she said, “because there’s troubling news. You know that Roy flew up north with the production team to scout locations for Sisters and Strangers .”
“I talked to Roy yesterday,” I said. “They’d just arrived on the island at Emma Lake where Ernest Lindner had his studio. Roy was ecstatic. One hundred and eighteen acres of virgin forest and a log cabin constructed in 1935 — exactly what they need for the outdoor shots.”
Georgie winced, and when I saw the pain in her eyes, I sank into the chair across from hers. “Something’s happened,” I said.
She nodded. “Everything was fine. The production team rented vans in Saskatoon, drove to Emma Lake and hired boats to carry them and their gear out to the island. They had a shore lunch and then split up to explore the terrain. It was a gorgeous day, and at five o’clock, the team met back at the boat dock as planned.”
“But Roy wasn’t there?” I said. My pulse was racing. Our family had known Roy for less than a year, but he had been a good friend to us.
Georgie’s gaze shifted back to the forsythia and stayed there, as if she wanted to hide among the blossoms. “Everyone assumed he’d lost track of the time, but when he wasn’t there by half past five, they separated and started scouring the island. This time of year, the sun sets around seven thirty that far north. The crew knew they’d never find Roy in the dark, so they called the police in Prince Albert. It was close to ten before Ainsley and Kyle Daly, the production designer, spotted Roy. He was alive, but in Ainsley’s words, he was in ‘a state of mortal terror.’”
The image of the Roy Brodnitz I knew flashed through my mind. He was an elegant and fastidious man. At the beginning of his career, Roy had been a dancer, and after twenty years of sedentary life as a writer, he still moved with a dancer’s grace. “I can’t believe any of this,” I said. “When I spoke to Roy yesterday, he was fine — better than fine. He sounded like his old self.”
Georgie shook her head. “According to Ainsley, when she finally found Roy, he didn’t recognize her.”
“How could that be?” I said. “The two of them have been inseparable since they were fourteen.”
“Ainsley said Roy was drenched in sweat; his clothes were filthy, and his fingernails looked as if he’d been clawing at the ground. He was muttering gibberish. He seemed desperate to make the others understand, but before they could make sense of what he was saying, he started gasping for breath and collapsed. Apparently, he suffered a massive heart attack.”
“Where is he now?”
“Nick Kovacs and one of the police officers carried him out of the woods to a clearing where a helicopter could land and take him to a hospital in Saskatoon.”
“What do they think caused the heart attack?”
“They don’t know,” Georgie said. “The doctors are waiting for more test results. When I raised the possibility that Roy might have been using cocaine again, Ainsley ripped my head off.”
“Roy’s been clean for over four years,” I said. “I know that after his husband, Lev-Aaron, died, Roy hit bottom, but he made it through and went on to have the greatest success of his career.”
She nodded. “ The Happiest Girl .”
“It’s still playing to packed houses on Broadway, and everyone who worked on the film adaptation says Roy’s script is brilliant. He’d have no reason to use again.”
“Are you certain of that?” Georgie said, and her tone was measured. “I’ve barely seen Roy since I arrived in Regina. When Ainsley asked me to take over as executive producer of Sisters and Strangers after Gabe died, I had to hit the ground running. Roy and I haven’t even had a cup of coffee together — his choice, not mine, and believe me, I gave him plenty of openings.”
“Why would Roy need an opening to have coffee with you?” I said. “I thought the friendship among the three of you went way back.”
“It does.” Georgie’s eyes met mine. Her gaze was penetrating. “You’re a hard person to deceive, Joanne, so I’m going to lay it all out for you. After Gabe’s death, Ainsley believed that she and Fawn could cope without bringing anyone else in. Gabe had made all the decisions about cast and crew, and as director, Ainsley had been part of all those decisions. Fawn had years of experience managing productions day-to-day. With one exception, it was in great shape for pre-production.”
“And that exception was the script,” I said. “When Roy and I agreed to what we referred to loosely as a collaboration, we were both so excited that the first two episodes seemed to write themselves.”
Georgie nodded. “That’s the way the scripts read. That opening with Sally and Joanne at fourteen, together on the raft is a flawless introduction to their idyllic summer.”
“It was idyllic,” I said. “One of the many perfect summers we shared growing up — all of them filled with blue skies and the fishy-weedy smell of the lake and Sally and me lying side by side on the raft with the sun pressing down on our backs like a hand. We thought it would always be that way.”
“But it ended,” Georgie said gently. “The scene where Joanne goes to the Loves’ cottage and discovers the family in the dining room — Des dead, Nina apparently near death and Sally lying face down in her own vomit — is heart-wrenching.” Georgie reached out and squeezed my hand. “And you survived it.”
“Barely,” I said. “When I stood on the dock that night and watched my father drive the boat carrying Des’s body and Nina and Sally across the water to the mainland, my world shattered. And it got worse. My father was a physician. He was also Des’s oldest friend, and he told me he believed that after Des suffered the stroke that paralyzed his right side and ended his career, he must have felt he had no reason to live. He killed himself, and he attempted to take Nina and Sally with him by poisoning their d