Deadly Appearances (A Joanne Kilbourn Mystery)

Deadly Appearances (A Joanne Kilbourn Mystery)

Andy Boychuk is a successful Saskatchewan politician – until one sweltering August afternoon when the party faithful gather at a picnic. All of the key people in Boychuk’s life – family, friends, enemies – are there. Boychuk steps up to the podium to make a speech, takes a sip of water, and drops dead. Joanne Kilbourn, in her début as Canada’s leading amateur sleuth, is soon on the case, delving into Boychuk’s history. What she finds are a Bible college that’s too good to be true, a woman with a horrifying and secret past, and a murderer who’s about to strike again. “Add Gail Bowen to the growing, long list of Canadians turning out superior mystery stories…Ms. Bowen charms the reader with a compelling heroine, some intriguing side figures and a suitably murky mystery, and combines it all with fine writing and acceptable surprises along the way.” – The Whig-Standard , Kingston “In Joanne Kilbourn, Gail Bowen has created a narrator who is bright, thoughtful, wryly entertaining, and warm without being sappy…I found this a very hard book to put down.” –Gary Draper, Books in Canada GAIL BOWEN's Joanne Kilbourn mysteries have made her one of Canada's most popular crime-fiction writers. The first book in the series, Deadly Appearances , was nominated for the W.H. Smith/Books in Canada Best First Novel Award. It was followed by Murder at the Mendel , The Wandering Soul Murders , A Colder Kind of Death (which won the Arthur Ellis Award for best crime novel), A Killing Spring , Verdict in Blood , Burying Ariel , The Glass Coffin , The Last Good Day , and The Endless Knot . Bowen has also written five plays that have been produced across Canada, and one, The World According to Charlie D , for CBC Radio. Now retired from teaching at the First Nations University, Bowen lives in Regina. For the first seconds after Andy’s body slumped onto the searing metal of the truck bed, it seemed as if we were all encircled by a spell that froze us in the terrible moment of his fall. Suspended in time, the political people standing behind the stage, hands wrapped around plastic glasses of warm beer, kept talking politics. Craig and Julie Evanson, the perfect political couple, safely out of public view, were drinking wine coolers from bottles. Andy’s family and friends, awkward at finding themselves so publicly in the place of honour, kept sitting, small smiles in place, on the folding chairs that lined the back of the stage. The people out front kept looking expectantly at the empty space behind the podium. Waiting. Waiting.   And then chaos. Everyone wanted to get to Andy. Including me. The stage was about four and a half feet off the ground. Accessible. I stepped back a few steps, took a little run and threw myself onto the stage floor. It was when I was lying on that scorching metal, shins stinging, wind knocked out of me, chin bruised from the hit I had taken, that I saw Rick Spenser.   There was, and still is, something surreal about that moment: the famous face looming up out of nowhere. He was pulling himself up the portable metal staircase that was propped against the back of the truck bed. His body appeared in stages over the metal floor: head, shoulders and arms, torso, belly, legs, feet. He seemed huge. He was climbing those steps as if his life depended on it, and his face was shiny and red with exertion. The heat on the floor of the stage was unbearable. I could smell it. I remember thinking, very clearly, a big man like that could die in this heat, then I turned and scrambled toward Andy. The metal floor was so hot it burned the palms of my hands.   Over the loudspeaker a woman was saying, “Could a doctor please come up here?” over and over. Her voice was terrible, forlorn and empty of hope. As soon as I saw Andy, I knew there wasn’t any point in a doctor.   Andy was in front of me, and I knew he was dead. He looked crumpled – all the sinew and spirit was gone. For the only time since I’d known him, he looked – no other word – insignificant.   The winter after my husband died I had taken a course in emergency cardiac care – something to make me feel less exposed to danger, less at the mercy of the things that could kill you if you weren’t ready for them. As I turned Andy over on his back, I could hear the voice of our instructor, very young, very confident – nothing would ever hurt her. “I hope none of you ladies ever have to use this, but if you do, just remember abc.” I was beginning to tremble. Airway. I took Andy’s chin between my thumb and fore finger and tilted his head back. His flesh felt clammy and flaccid, but the airway was clear. Breathing. I put my ear on his mouth, listened, and watched his chest for a sign of breathing. There was nothing. I was talking to myself. I could hear my voice, but it didn’t sound like me. “Four quick rescue breaths and then c. Check circulation. ” I bent over Andy and pinched his nostrils shut. “Oh, I’m sorry, Andy. I’m sorry,” and I bent my mouth to cover his.